Something Wicked This Way Steeles
by Madeleine Gilbert
Summary: S5; Steele Inseparable series, Pt. 8. While the Steeles investigate the murder of a Shakesperian actor, Roselli & Windsor Thomas work to bring about their downfall. And how do they cope with Remington's sudden desire to have a baby?
1. Chapter 1

STEELE INSEPARABLE PART VIII: Something Wicked This Way Steeles

AUTHOR: Madeleine Gilbert

SYNOPSIS: S5 continuation; eighth in a series. While the Steeles investigate the murder of a Shakesperian actor, Roselli and Windsor Thomas work to bring about their downfall.

SEQUEL TO: Part I, "Steele in Perspective'; Part II, "Steele-In-Law"; Part III, "Ancestral Steele"; Part IV, "Steele in the Shadows"' PART V: "The Prequel: Requiem in Steele Major"; PART VI: "Notoriously, Steele"; PART VII: "Wife of Steele"

DISCLAIMER: This story is not for profit and is purely for entertainment purposes. The author does not own the rights to these characters and is not now, nor ever has been, affiliated in any way with _Remington Steele_, its producers, actors and their agents, MTM productions, the NBC television network or with any station or network carrying the show in syndication.

Additional characters from outside the RS canon, apart from historic personages, are fictional and created by the author. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I've intended from the beginning for this installment in the _SI_ series to be my first stab at a good, old-fashioned, "closed" murder mystery, the format the series writers generally used. A closed mystery or whodunit is one in which the readers doesn't discover the identity of the killer until the hero does. By contrast, the entire _Steele Inseparable _series is an open mystery, because I've written it so that readers are privy to some of Roselli's actions against the Steeles before they are.

The story's been a long time in the making—over a year, as a matter of fact. I hope you'll enjoy it as much as I've enjoyed creating it despite the occasional frustrations and episodes of writer's block.

I'll be posting this as a WIP, so I'm asking in advance for your patience. There may be some down time between posts; if there is, it's because it's unavoidable. But I do promise that I _will_ finish. After all, I'm compelled to: _SI _part nine, "DoppelSteele", is already on the drawing board!

Thank you again for your interest in my stories and for feedback, when you've cared to leave it. I can't tell you how much it means to me.

MG

* * *

By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes:--

Open, locks, whoever knocks!

_Macbeth_, William Shakespeare

Chapter 1

" 'Alas, poor Yorick!' " said Remington Steele. " '—I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy; he hath borne me on his back a thousand times and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it.' "

He paused to glance toward the Rabbit's driver's seat, where his audience of one--his partner and wife, Laura—was rolling her eyes at the northbound Pacific Coast Highway unwinding beneath the wheels.

Undaunted, he continued. " 'Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your jibes now? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar?' "

As he spoke, his gestures were becoming more expansive, his voice more resonant, his accent distinctly English, rather than Irish. That he sounded like a younger, handsomer imitation of Derek Vivyan, the has-been film star with whom he'd been briefly enthralled in year two of his tenure as Remington Steele, he never realized for a second.

" 'Not one now, to mock your own grinning? Quite chap-fallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that.' "

He'd scarcely closed his mouth on the final syllable when Laura did exactly what the end of his speech suggested: burst out laughing.

He subsided in his seat. "That bad?" he asked in his normal voice.

It wasn't easy to restrain her merriment, but after a sideways glance at him she managed it. "You're really getting into this, aren't you?"

"I've been practicing. After all, it isn't every day one gets the chance to apprentice with the most acclaimed Shakespearian actor of his generation."

"_Posing_ as the apprentice of the most acclaimed Shakespearian actor of his generation. Need I remind you we're on a case, Mr. Steele? Besides, you hate Shakespeare."

"On the contrary. I love Shakespeare. _Julius Caesar_, Louis Colherne, Marlon Brando, James Mason, John Gielgud, MGM, 1953…Olivier directing himself as Hamlet in 1948, or as Richard III, 1955. And who can forget the master of them all, Orson Welles in_ Macbeth_, declaiming the immortal line, 'By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes'."

"He didn't."

"Didn't what?"

"Say that line. He couldn't have. It's not one of Macbeth's. Anyway, movies don't count. They're adaptations. Non-authentic. Faux Shakespeare."

" 'Faux Shakespeare'?" His eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "There's no such thing."

"Your grandfather wouldn't have agreed."

She was referring to Lloyd Chalmers, whose namesake Remington was destined to have been, if only his parents' separation in his early infancy hadn't gotten in the way. The elder Chalmers had been a bright light of the London stage between the World Wars, celebrated for his lead roles in Shakespeare's most famous battles between the sexes, _Taming of the Shrew_ and _Much Ado about Nothing._

"You can't know that for sure," he objected.

"No, but it's a good guess, given the fact he never tried to break into movies himself. Daniel told Alex Edwards so, remember?"

That comment rendered him silent for a good two miles, as allusions to his late father, Daniel Chalmers, still tended to do. "Know what I wish?" he asked, brightening again.

"Hm?"

"That Hogarth would've chosen another play besides _Hamlet_ for our vantage point to watch over the cast. It's gloomy stuff, and Hamlet himself is such a noodle. I'd have preferred _Mac_--"

Quick as lightning even though she was driving, Laura laid her right hand across his mouth before he could get the second syllable out.

"Laura, what are you doing?"

"I should've warned you before. Real theater people never say 'Macbeth' out loud. Call it 'the bard's play' or 'the Scottish play', if you have to. Better yet, don't mention it at all."

"Why not?"

"An old superstition. If an actor says the name inside a theater, he or she unleashes the curse."

"The curse?"

"It's been documented for centuries. The only way to counteract it is for the offending party to leave the building, spin around three times, spit, swear and then knock on the door be let back in. Otherwise it's certain accident, injury…even death…for the entire company."

"Yes, but we're not in a theater now. Nor are we actors."

"Maybe not, but it doesn't hurt to practice."

"Well, then, I'd have preferred 'the Scottish play'. There's so much more scope for excitement. Battle scenes…rousing swordfights…Imagine the fun I'd have had, choreographing that sort of thing with one of those chaps, Judd Owen or Lachlan Ford--"

"Mind on the case, all right? Anyway, Hogarth told us why they're performing _Hamlet _now. Hambeth's founder stipulated that the festival has to alternate the two plays on a yearly basis. They closed last season with 'the Scottish play'." Emphasizing the phrase, she dimpled at him saucily. " 'When in Rome', Mr. Steele."

They were on their way to a theatrical complex near Solvang, about two hundred miles north of Los Angeles. The original name dreamt up by its eccentric founder was The West Coast Society for the Preservation and Propagation of Shakesperian Dramatics. Popular usage had shortened that to The Hambeth Festival, and as Hambeth it was now officially known. Its unofficial mission was to surpass and ultimately eclipse the older, more prestigious Stratford Festival of Ontario, Canada. So far the competition had remained heavily weighted in Stratford's favor. Still, Hambeth had done well over the twelve years of its existence—at least its investors and backers thought so. Those who professed to value art more than money flocked to it for its growing international reputation for excellence and its troupe of accomplished actors.

Art and money both had their places in the Steeles' hearts, but that wasn't the reason they were interested in Hambeth. Remington Steele Investigations had been retained by the current artistic director, Edmund Hogarth, to get to the bottom of a rash of accidents that had plagued the final months of the recently concluded 1987 season. With the new season set to open at the end of February, Hogarth wanted to nip any resumption of his company's "deuced streak of bad luck" in the bud. Remington and Laura were supposed to check the incidents out, provide low-level security for the actors as they returned from their break and prevent further mishaps, all in one fell swoop.

Hogarth was waiting to welcome them upon their arrival at Hambeth's campus on several grassy acres off Highway 101. "It's kind of you to meet us," Laura said as he shook her hand.

"I thought it would look well if the artistic director personally greeted the very first invitees of Hambeth's Visiting Apprentices program," replied Hogarth. He was a massive man with strongly modeled features, his dark brows a marked contrast to his mane of silver hair. "Was I right?"

"Couldn't have devised a better reinforcement for our cover, myself," Remington said.

"Let me make sure I have it straight. Your name is Jim Monkley, Mr. Steele—and Mrs. Steele is Terry Randall?"

"Right," said Laura. "We're married, but Randall is my stage name. Or will be, if I make it through the apprentice program."

Keeping pace with their client, she and Remington took in the open amphitheater, the two playhouses and the various auxiliary buildings that made up the Hambeth complex. "Impressive," Remington commented to Hogarth.

"I'll show you around later, when we have more time. The _Hamlet _cast is assembling in the rehearsal hall at The Garrick--"

"The Garrick?" asked Remington.

"The larger theater. The smaller one's the Richard Burbage. It's the perfect chance for you to meet everyone and sort out who's who. This way."

Despite its grand-sounding name, the rehearsal hall was nothing more than a large, linoleum-floored room equipped with three long tables set end-to-end and folding metal chairs. In one corner were a water cooler and a smaller table holding a self-service coffee set-up. Obviously the West Cost Society for the Preservation of Shakespeare—or its artistic director--didn't believe in pampering its performers.

But it was the performers themselves who were the real surprise. As Hogarth excused himself momentarily and left, Remington and Laura took a look at the straggling bunch scattered around the room, turned to check one another's reactions, and looked again.

For over a week the Steeles had studied the accumulated profiles of the entire cast, including in-depth bios. It was standard procedure for undercover work on a case; so thoroughly had they mastered the data, they could've recited a chronological list of roles each actor had ever played without thinking twice. The problem was, there wasn't the least resemblance between the stars in the glossy black-and-white photos that had accompanied the files and the ill-assorted men and women before them now.

Since the cast didn't seem to be paying any attention to them, the Steeles continued to observe from just inside the door. "I think that's Cledwyn Rhys over there," Laura remarked in an undertone.

"Where?"

"Checking himself out in the mirror."

"The blonde would-be surfer? _He_'_s _the Welsh-born sensation whose Henry the Fifth has taken the theatrical world by storm?"

Laura nodded. "And unless I miss my guess, that's Lizbeth Lyons hovering around him."

"Ah, the reigning ingénue. Not that she looks the part. More like its antithesis." Turning with distaste from the display of stiletto-heeled boots, leather pants and excess make-up, Remington was rapidly assessing other faces with his keen gaze. "Look there, Laura, the rather faded blonde just sitting down at the table. Diana Bell, isn't it? Hogarth's wife? The company's first lady?"

"I think you're right. Oh, good, someone who looks like his picture. Aubrey St. Mark."

"In the pretentious, former-leading-man flesh. And the upstart replacement, Judd Owen, right behind him."

"Sexy, smoldering, middle-aged rebel versus sexy, smoldering young rebel."

"Well put, Laura."

"And both of them strangely compelling." She brushed her arm against his, a light touch meant to register on no one's radar but theirs. "This is kind of fun."

His blue eyes laughed down at her. "Yes, indeed, like watching grass grow. I'm kidding, I'm kidding," he added in protest as her elbow jabbed his ribs.

"Right, it's time we got started, Mr. Monkley, Miss Randall," said Hogarth, who had suddenly appeared behind them, accompanied by a young woman with an armload of folders. "Let's make the introductions, shall we?"

It told the Steeles a lot, the way Hogarth had only to clear his throat to cause dead silence to fall and the actors to pull briskly up to the table. "Ladies and gentlemen, your attention," he said. He had the kind of resonant bass voice that could've carried without a microphone over a full orchestra. "Say hello to Jim Monkley and Terry Randall, the first participants in our new Visiting Apprentices Program. They'll be observing with us for the next couple of weeks."

The general welcome was limited to a few indistinguishable murmurs. Hogarth seemed not to notice the lack of enthusiasm as he asked the Steeles to find seats. But it was as plain to Remington and Laura as the speculation in the glances that turned their way. "Chilly in here," Laura remarked to Remington through a tight, bright smile.

"Mm, positively Arctic."

They made themselves unobtrusive at the end of the table farthest from Hogarth, who was saying, "The files Thea's passing out contain the role re-assignments I announced before the break. To avoid any misunderstanding, I'll go through them again. Mr. Rhys takes over as Hamlet from Judd Owen. Miss Lyons, you're our new Ophelia. Morwenna Pascoe from Ophelia to doubling as the Player Queen and Guildenstern. Mr. Owen is Laertes, Mr. Ford Horatio--"

Around the table a wave of reaction was building, most of it negative. In a nerve-grating scrape of metal, the young rebel, Judd Owen, flung himself backwards in his chair, no longer smoldering, but openly furious. The Steeles watched with interest.

Hogarth, for his part, ignored him. "—and St. Mark, the Ghost." He raised his head and gazed down the length of the table. "I trust you've each made good use of the time off to do your prep work. We'll see how well you've done in a moment. Full rehearsal will take place next Wednesday with dress rehearsal the following day. Any questions?"

"One." The quiet voice belonged to Aubrey St. Mark. His dark-lashed black eyes were fastened on Hogarth in a clear challenge. "You haven't told us who'll be replacing me as Claudius."

"I'll be playing opposite my wife this quarter. Director's prerogative…Aubrey."

The other members of the company had stiffened into silence but snuck covert glances at each other and the two men. Hogarth's wife, Diana Bell, seemed to be staring with immense concentration at the folder on the table before her.

Above St. Mark's clipped beard gleamed a sardonic smile. "Quite so. Playing God with the rest of us again…Eddie?"

"Quite so." In an obvious dismissal Hogarth broke eye contact to nod at a man farther down the table. "Our Stratford refugee: Mr. Treacher. Something on your mind?"

Andy Treacher, according to the Steeles' information, was a character actor who'd joined Hambeth the previous year. "If I'm the permanent re-cast for Rosencrantz, does it mean Oliver Arundel's not returning?"

"Hambeth has...terminated…our relationship with Mr. Arundel at his request. And we're willing to do the same for any other actor who's dissatisfied with the way I direct this company." In its circuit around the table, Hogarth's gray gaze lingered longest on St. Mark and Owen. "Have I made myself understood?"

The room plunged again into uneasy silence. Then the short, silver-haired man on Remington's right exclaimed: " 'This apoplexy is, I take it, a kind of lethargy, an't please your lordship; a kind of sleeping the blood, a whoreson tingling. It is the disease of not listening, the malady of not marking, that I am troubled withal'."

He sounded so much like a rollicking drunk that a shout of laughter arose from the table, releasing the tension. Even Hogarth's lips twitched in a reluctant smile. Beaming, the little man turned to the Steeles. "Falstaff. _Henry the Fifth._ Properly delivered, it brings down the house."

"Thank you, Mr. Wycliffe," Hogarth was saying in the meantime. "Shall we begin the read-thorough?"

While the actor playing Francisco spoke his opening lines, Laura tilted her folder up to cover her aside to Remington. "You were saying something earlier about no scope for excitement in this case?"

He glanced thoughtfully from Hogarth to St. Mark. "My mistake, Mrs. Steele. Scottish play or not, I've a feeling we've stumbled on more than enough drama to occupy the both of us." And he gave a sideways motion of the head that signaled, let's get back to work, shall we?

Faithful to their fake identities as hard-working young thespians eager to make a good impression, they bent over their scripts.

Neither of them caught the growing gleam of recognition in Wycliffe's eyes as they returned again and again to travel over Remington's face.

* * *

The initial stop on the Steeles' tour of the Hambeth campus was the props department at The Garrick, where the cause of the first accident—a musket that had discharged a real bullet—was kept.

The visitor who arrived expecting to find a dusky space crammed with crumbling treasures would've been deeply disappointed, Laura thought. The reality was an entire wing of the Garrick partitioned into an office and two enormous storage rooms, each brightly lit and well-organized. Ranks of floor-to-ceiling shelves in the center room held a staggering variety of items, pewter mugs to ivory fans to a trio of giant stuffed parrots. The third room was devoted to weaponry; firearms resided in one series of glass cases, swords, knives and lances in another. There was even a flail like the one with which she'd played briefly at the Duke of Rutherford's English castle three years ago.

"Quite a collection," she remarked to Hogarth. At the same she watched Remington wandering about the middle room, hands crammed into the front pockets of his jeans, leaning down now and then to examine an object that grabbed his attention. His demeanor would've fooled anyone but her. Beneath the surface nonchalance he was focused, alert, absorbing the pertinent details with that amazing quickness of his. He'd already determined, and confirmed to their client, that the lock on the hallway door hadn't been tampered with.

His track-shoe-cushioned saunter didn't fool her, either. Try as he might to hide it, his faint frown and the almost imperceptible drag of his right foot told her that his ankle injury was bothering him. The souvenir from their recent run-in with his old lover, Anna Patton, née Simpson, wasn't healing as quickly as he liked to pretend.

"It's not as substantial as the more established theaters," Hogarth replied. "But what you see before you represents a huge investment of time and money. That's why it's under lock and key."

"Is there another way in besides this door?" asked Laura.

"The emergency exits, but we keep them locked and the alarms armed."

"Does anyone else have a key?"

"Only Max Yarborough, our props manager."

"And what's his story?" Remington had paused in his exploration to pose the question.

"Experienced. Trustworthy. We've worked together a long time, Mr. Steele."

"Not an obstacle to grinding an axe, presumably," Remington pointed out. "It hasn't escaped our notice that the lot in the rehearsal hall were a bit…oh, shall we say…discontented?"

"Actors. Never happy unless they're complaining about something. I can say it because I am one."

His expression unreadable, Remington passed into the weapons room. Laura said to Hogarth: "Maybe we should talk about the incident with the musket. It happened at the end of last season, you said?"

"In rehearsal, thank God, or who knows who might've been hurt."

"Tell us about it."

"We were making a change in a battle scene from act five. Nothing major—background business for a bit player."

"Who was on stage at the time?"

"Oliver Arundel. Judd Owen as Malcolm and St. Mark as Macduff. Simon Glasslough, Denis Paige, Jeremy Thorpe and Baird Kennicot were the others."

"Then it was as scene from--" feeling foolish, Laura grimaced, but said it anyway "—the Scottish play?"

Hogarth's mouth curved in amusement. "I see someone's told you about the curse."

"Mrs. Steele? A moment," called Remington.

The nod with which he greeted Laura and Hogarth indicated the entire weapons room. "Pick marks," he said tersely.

Laura looked around at the display cases and then back at him. "What, all of them?"

His quirked brow said the answer was yes. "I'd initiate a complete inventory straightaway," he said to Hogarth, who'd turned a little pale. "One of those is the musket in question, I take it?"

"You know old weapons, Mr. Steele?"

"A passing familiarity. But these are modern reproductions, aren't they? Designed to fire only blanks?"

"We all assumed so. But somehow there was a fragment of a dummy bullet lodged in the barrel that day along with the blank. If Paige hadn't known enough to aim over the heads of his cast mates…"

It was the first lapse the Steeles had seen in Hogarth's aura of authority. It helped humanize him a little. Maybe he really did care about his actors after all.

"You're certain, quite certain, it was live ammo?" asked Remington.

"Oh, yes. The damage is still visible, if you're interested in seeing it."

The Steeles were. Arrived at the theater, they examined in turn the hastily patched depression where the bullet had lodged in the rear wall. "Deliberate sabotage?" murmured Laura as Hogarth moved slightly out of earshot.

"And no shortage of suspects. It appears you and I have our work cut out for us."

"Think the idea's occurred to him?"

"It could hardly fail to, given the tension between him and the actors. Of course, there's another theory that's worth a look."

It was no big surprise that Laura divined his reasoning process and produced a complementary reference to a case. "Sonya Steinmetz. He might be the one staging the accidents, if you'll forgive the expression."

"Exactly the term I'd have used myself if you hadn't beaten me to it."

"I'd like to get the ball rolling by questioning Oliver Arundel. Something tells me there's more to his resignation than unhappiness with the way Hogarth runs the place."

"Excellent suggestion. But let's check the other accident scenes first."

The clues they gleaned from the remaining sites were inconclusive. The cigarette that had triggered the fire in the wardrobe department might have been planted, still burning, in the waste paper basket--or it might have been tossed there in unintentional carelessness by Graham Bishop, the head costumer and a two-pack-a-day smoker. Someone could have tampered backstage with the light board's wiring and given the engineer a nasty shock. Then again, Hogarth had admitted that the system was old and in need of an upgrade. The chunk of backdrop that had broken free, narrowly missing a stagehand's head, showed signs of having been loosened. That the backdrop had been damaged in transit between set design and the stage was an equally valid conjecture.

Coincidence? Or the work of a grudge-holder seeking revenge? Given the lack of hard evidence, it was too soon to say which it was. But a clever, determined individual could easily disguise the latter as the former, as the Steeles had discovered in the past at the Friedlich Sensitivity Spa and the Golden Dugout baseball camp. He or she might've slipped a little in employing a live bullet; it was the only detail that couldn't be explained away. It was also the possible starting point in spotting the thread that tied the occurrences together.

It wasn't politic to communicate that to Hogarth. Instead they closed their conference with him by outlining the plan of attack they would pursue the following day. "We'll each want to spend private time with the actors," said Remington. "The ones who witnessed the musket discharge to begin with. Those whose roles were changed. Anyone who's expressed unhappiness with Hambeth."

"Our pretext will be that as apprentices, we'll need exposure to as many of the stars as possible," added Laura. "You can divide the list evenly between Mr. Steele and me, starting with Aubrey St. Mark and Judd Owen."

Hogarth hesitated. "You don't mean you want me to arrange training periods for you with the _actors_, Mrs. Steele."

It was another glimpse of the chauvinistic streak he'd displayed at their very first meeting at the agency. "Is there something wrong with that?" asked Laura.

"It's not how we work at Hambeth."

She regarded him coolly. "Then maybe it's time for a change. It's awfully sexist to assume a talented woman can only learn from other women, or to deny her the chance to study with a great artist of either sex. Women are 'actors', too, nowadays, aren't they?"

Their eyes clashed and held. "I'll see what I can do," Hogarth said.

"Oliver Arundel," Remington put in. "We'd like to hear his version of the shooting. Can you put us in touch with him?"

"I have his last known address. Whether he's still living there I couldn't say."

The Steeles exchanged a look.

Driving back towards the highway a short while later, Remington commented, "Not exactly forthcoming, is he? Defeats the purpose of hiring us in the first place. I'm beginning to suspect he's somehow been persuaded to do it against his better judgment."

"Mm," Laura replied absently. She was deep in a puzzle of her own. Something about Hogarth's reaction to her avoidance of the name "Macbeth" while they were in the theater was nagging her. It didn't seem to fit. Where she might've expected him to be apologetic or embarrassed when referring to the curse, she'd sensed amusement bordering on cynicism. He'd made her willingness to abide by the taboos, though they didn't officially apply to her, appear a little ridiculous in comparison.

She wasn't sure what to make of it, or if it held any significance for their investigation at all. But it was definitely interesting.

* * *

"Laura, I think it's time we talked about having a baby," Remington said.

And Laura, who'd just taken a bite of sesame shrimp, promptly choked on it.

They were in their room at the aptly named Hamlet Motel right outside of Solvang: clean, cute, and totally conducive to the image they wanted to project of struggling artists on a tight budget. It was a given that as the case progressed they would put in longer hours, but this evening they'd already compared notes and called it a day. Now the cartons containing their Chinese takeout dinner were spread between them on the king-size bed. She had Frances' Christmas gift, a new anthology of ghost stories she hadn't read before, to entertain her; he was snorting with laughter over _Monty Python and the Holy Grail _on cable TV, his bad ankle propped by a couple of pillows.

They couldn't have been happier together than they were at this moment, Laura thought--not even in one of the romantic settings with which he used to tempt her endlessly in the old days, the Fiji Islands, or a moonlit beach in Maui.

It was positive proof that the old saw "be careful what you wish for" didn't always hold true. For wasn't this exactly what she _had_ wished for so many times over the previous month, when Anna Simpson Patton had set her plan to murder Remington into motion? To have him back in one piece and all to herself? Almost four weeks had elapsed since the danger had ended with Anna's death in a police shootout; by now they should've been taking each other for granted. On the contrary, the honeymoon spirit was so far from abating, Laura had begun to wonder whether she shouldn't occasionally pick a fight with him just to ensure they didn't lose their edge altogether.

Then again, they were overdue for some tranquility. Anna had descended on them with all the destructive force of an earthquake and a category five hurricane rolled into one. And she'd proceeded to shake the Steeles' world to its very foundations. There wasn't a single thing belonging to them that she hadn't threatened, thanks to proof she possessed that Remington had pulled off a major jewel heist seven years before. Their livelihood; their marriage; Remington's freedom and identity; and, in the end, his life.

In the midst of the general upheaval Laura had suffered through a very special, personal hell, one she would never reveal to anyone, not even him. Anna had demonstrated a peculiar genius for pinpointing Laura's pervasive fears and manipulating circumstances to take the fullest possible advantage of them. Of course they all centered on Remington. One by one Anna had exposed them to daylight and subtly, expertly, twisted the knife until Laura was fighting two battles at the same time, one with Anna, the second with her own doubts.

She didn't think anybody could blame her for letting Anna get to her, but it didn't stop her from blaming herself. She should've been stronger, smarter, better prepared for the onslaught. She knew Anna was a con artist; she knew how cons operated. Hadn't she learned from a master—or two, if she counted her father-in-law? She should've recognized the strategy for what it was, Anna doing her damnedest to divide Remington from Laura and lure him to his death, just as she had when she first arrived in Los Angeles to marry Walter Patton.

Instead Laura felt them chip away steadily at her self-command, each of the issues Anna had dredged up one by one. Marriage was only an experiment in novelty for Remington, not a lifetime commitment. Domesticity would at some point begin to bore him. She, Laura, didn't have what it took to keep him interested sexually. He wouldn't have chosen her three years ago if Anna hadn't tried to kill him.

It was an experience she would've avoided at all costs if it were in her power, nor would she have wanted to repeat it. And yet, as sometimes happens in the worst situations, it had proven itself almost a gift. For it had bestowed on her a certainty about her husband for which she could never have brought herself to ask.

Remington himself had seen to it.

Not in an overflow of words, though in that respect he was more up front than she gave him credit for. No, it was his typical method of communicating, through what he did rather than what he said. It started in his first face-to-face encounter with Anna. She had baldly stated that she wanted him back, his marriage notwithstanding. In addition to outright blackmail she'd dangled the fortune she'd inherited from her recently deceased husband in front of him to sweeten the deal. It was obvious she expected the man she'd known alternately as Jean Murrell and Paul Fabrini would leap for the bait without a second's hesitation.

Laura's husband, Remington Steele, had walked out, revolted.

He wouldn't have returned, either, if Laura hadn't devised what she considered a brilliant counter-move to thwart Anna's blackmail scheme. He could pretend to have second thoughts about Anna's proposition and launch what Laura had called a "charm offensive" against her, which would put him in an excellent position to uncover and steal back the evidence. Overruling Remington's vehement objections, she'd finally persuaded him into it.

Afterward Laura had raked herself over the coals good and hard for her recklessness. What the hell was she thinking, practically shoving him into the arms of the woman she rightly feared more than any of the others who'd emerged from his past? But it hadn't taken hindsight to show her the massive effort he'd expended throughout to preserve her trust. Even at it was happening she recognized it. It was there in the touches, gestures and glances that were part of the fabric of their relationship, in his diligence at the office, in his invariable desire for her. And it was what had driven him to risk his life, traveling alone with Anna on her yacht from Malibu to San Diego with the intent of destroying her hold over him before she could do lasting damage to him and Laura.

The truth had manifested itself in a single moment of blinding clarity. Decoding the cryptic clues he left for her, Laura had stumbled across him in the spot where Anna had left him to die, an unventilated shed on her secluded Malibu estate. He was prostrate from the combined effects of heat exhaustion and a couple of untreated wounds—a gash and sprained ankle he'd suffered, it turned out, in an escape attempt gone bad. But he wasn't too far gone to relate how much he'd dared for her sake: a search of the yacht for the incriminating papers hours in advance of his original plan. And the rationale behind it: "It meant I might come home to you that much sooner, Laura."

It would have taken a woman with a much harder heart than Laura's not to have believed him. Not to banish her insecurities once and for all. Not to accept his devotion for what it was, genuine, whole-hearted, unsullied by hidden yearnings for tall, curvaceous blondes with Continental accents and histories almost as checkered as his.

So: she was surer of him now than she had ever been. They were solid, stable, in their love for each other. In defiance of its inauspicious beginning, their marriage was working. They were happy.

And suddenly he wanted to take the chance of messing it up by talking baby?

Was he _serious_?

His contribution towards helping her cough up the errant morsel of shrimp was to pound her vigorously on the back. "What did you just say?" she wheezed when she could draw enough breath to speak.

"A baby. We've never discussed having one. Don't you think it's time we did?"

"What? Now?"

"Why not? _Carpe diem._ Seize the day. Isn't that our motto?"

She didn't realize she was staring at him until he reached out and with his index finger closed the jaw she'd dropped. "You'll catch flies that way," he teased.

"A baby?"

He pantomimed rocking an infant in his arms and hummed a snatch of a lullaby to underscore the image. "You," he said. "Me. Us."

Of all the conversations they'd had over the course of their relationship, this was rapidly becoming the most surreal. Remington Steele singing "Rock-a-Bye Baby" to an imaginary child? She wasn't sure whether to administer the proverbial pinch to make certain she wasn't dreaming, or to check his forehead to see if he were feverish.

"I never knew you were so interested in fatherhood, Mr. Steele."

"I never had a reason to be interested, until lately. The question is…" He broke off to grab his pillow, stretching out full length with his elbow propped on it, a posture that always signaled significant investment in the topic at hand. "The question is, do you have the same sort of interest in motherhood? And if you do, how do we go about merging our interests, so to speak?"

"Do you really think this is the time to bring it up? We're in the middle of a case."

"We're always in the middle of a case, Laura. That shouldn't stop us from talking it over, searching for common ground--provided there's common ground to be had."

So he _was_ serious. She swallowed. How serious? More importantly, to what lengths was he willing to press the point? He wore his habitual expression, affectionate amusement, incipient laughter; it didn't tell her a thing.

Except that he was waiting for an answer.

Well, never let it be said that anyone, even her beloved Remington, could pin Laura Steele into a tight corner she couldn't get out of, or maneuver her into a conversation she didn't want to have. Anyway, he had only himself to blame. He was the one who'd modeled evasive behavior to her in the first place.

It didn't take long to dispense with the obstacles between them, or, in other words, the takeout containers. Remington seemed a shade irritated as he watched her gather them up. "What are you doing?"

"You were wondering how to...merge…our interests in parenthood, weren't you?" In playful determination she straddled his hips. "I wouldn't have thought a demonstration was necessary, but if you insist…"

"This isn't quite what I had in mind."

"No?" Bending over him, she nuzzled a trail along his throat, inhaling his fragrance through the open collar of his shirt. With a gentle tug she took the skin at the base of his neck between her teeth and delicately nipped it. "How about now?"

"I know what you're up to, and it won't work."

She was planting tiny, whispering kisses along his cheek as she worked her way over to his ear. "Oh?"

"It's a transparent ploy, using foreplay to avoid answering my question. But you've overlooked one important detail." Even as he spoke, a shiver went through him: her lips and tongue had found his earlobe and the sensitive spot beneath it.

"Enlighten me."

"I'm a man of iron self-control, when I want to be. Staunch…impervious…immovable…"

She looked him solemnly in the eye. "I can see that." In the meantime her left hand was slipping below his waist in a deft caress. A slow smile curved her lips when he stirred beneath her touch. "And I respect it."

The sound he made was a cross between a smothered groan and a sigh of pleasure. "Playing dirty, are we?"

"I certainly hope so."

"Well, as to that, let me remind you--" wrapping his arms around her and pulling her down on top of him "—I know a trick or two, myself. Eh?" Swiftly he rolled her over so that his body was covering hers. Somewhere in the process her blouse was freed from the waistband of her jeans and completely unbuttoned.

She met his feigned innocence with a lifted eyebrow. "Do I even want to ask where you learned that?"

"Pure improvisation. It comes naturally, with the right person." Now it was his turn to dip his head to taste her bare skin, only it was of her breast.

On the TV screen beyond them the Knights Who Say Ni were gleefully introducing themselves to King Arthur and his companions. Remington leaned up on his side just long enough to cut it off with a decisive zap of the remote control. "Where were we?" he mused, resuming his former position. "Ah, yes…right about here, I believe."

His easy surrender gave Laura a moment of smug satisfaction—take that, Anna Patton!—but then it dissipated, helped along liberally by Remington's knee-weakening kisses. Really she didn't deserve to have his attention lavished on her, considering that she'd manipulated him into it—but, oh, God, she was shameless enough to take him by whatever means she could get him…

Neither one of them could believe they heard the first knock at the door. The second and third were equally easy to ignore. But: "It's Peter Wycliffe," called a voice. "From Hambeth."

Wycliffe? the Steeles mouthed in unison.

If he'd grown impatient waiting for them to open the door, he didn't show it, but entered the room beaming. "It occurred to me there was something lacking in Hambeth's greeting to you this afternoon, so I've come to make it up to you." He extracted a bottle of Scotch from the paper sack he was carrying and held it out to Remington.

"Very kind of you," Remington said.

In addition to a bottle of soda and a bag of ice, the bag yielded a trio of plastic glasses. "My cast mates and I owe you an apology for our rudeness," Wycliffe continued once he'd made himself comfortable, drink in hand, in the sole armchair. "In our defense, this afternoon was the first we'd heard of the Visiting Apprentices Program. So you see why we weren't prepared to welcome you."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me," said Laura.

"I suppose not, after what happened in rehearsal. What can I tell you? It's the Hambeth way."

"Or Mr. Hogarth's way?" Remington asked.

"They're one and the same. Don't let it frighten you away."

"Oh, I think it's safe to say that neither my wife nor I are so easily daunted as that."

"You're a married couple? I wondered. Jim Monkley and Terry Randall. Do I have it right?"

It was the same question Hogarth had asked upon their arrival, posed nearly in the same words. "Right," was Laura's reply.

"I thought so." Leaning forward in his seat, Wycliffe fixed Remington with a look no less good-humored than before, but mixed with a sudden, unnerving sharpness. "Jim—or should I say Jimmy?--Monkley. The role Cary Grant played in _Sylvia Scarlett_. Not exactly an actor, but a conman with an extraordinary talent for assuming other identities." He turned to Laura. "And Terry Randall. Miss Hepburn was excellent in _Stage Door_, don't you agree? An actress playing an actress; a play within a play. 'The calla lilies are in bloom again. Such a strange flower, suitable for every occasion'."

The last sentences were spoken in a pitch-perfect imitation of Katharine Hepburn's voice, New England accent and all. The Steeles stared.

Wycliffe responded with a smile and a nod. "I do appreciate old movies. Something we have in common, it seems."

Then he added:

"The jig is up, children. I know who you really are."

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

It would've taken a lot more than a statement like Wycliffe's to shake the Steeles. One second went by, then two, and then Remington said lightly, "Well, I'll bite. Who is it you think we are?"

The shrewd gleam in Wycliffe's eyes softened into a reverie that acknowledged Remington's and Laura's presence without actually seeing them. After tasting his drink he set the glass aside and folded his hands. Suddenly he looked much older. "Fifty years I've been in this profession," he said. "If I may be so naive as to call it a profession. Started at the same place as every eighteen-year-old lad with no money, no connections, an indifferent education and a passion for the theater—at the bottom. You could do it in London in those days, hang about backstage, taking on odd jobs, hoping someone would notice you. At last someone did. Notice me."

This was so far from the accusing finger and denunciation for which the Steeles were bracing themselves that they stole a puzzled glance at one another. Wycliffe, wrapped in his memories, was oblivious.

He went on: "Not because of my brilliance, since I had none, apart from a certain aptitude for dead-on mimicry. I'm still quite good at it. Wouldn't you agree?"

He paused to smile at Laura, a sparkling, light-hearted grin. It was as if a door opened and through a narrow crack afforded a brief glimpse of the boy he had once been. She couldn't help smiling back.

"D'you know, to this day I'm still not sure what he saw in me? Willingness to learn, perhaps. I did have that, along with an enormous appetite for hard work. But sometimes, looking back, I think it wasn't me at all. It was him, just him…and his kind heart. A rare commodity in the theater, as you'll find out, if you don't already know it."

Now Wycliffe's attention shifted to Remington. "He was the darling of the London stage, and New York, too, in the thirties. Thirty-five, this was, the height of an Oscar Wilde revival that was mainly due to him. He had a great run that season in 'The Importance of Being Earnest' and 'An Ideal Husband'. As the saying goes, he taught me everything he knew."

Remington couldn't have spoken if he tried. A flash of insight had told him what Wycliffe was driving at. He longed for, yet dreaded, the moment when Wycliffe would put it into words.

"His name," said Wycliffe, "was Lloyd Chalmers."

Judging by her gasp of surprise, Laura hadn't made the connection Remington had. He didn't think she realized how quick she was to reach for him, but he grasped her hand gratefully.

"—And you, young man, if you're not a relation of his…" Wycliffe was saying. "Well, I don't see what else you can be, except his doppelgänger. You're him again to the very life."

"He was my grandfather," Remington said, his voice gone slightly hoarse, and cleared his throat.

"I thought so. That would make you Lillian's son? Or Daniel's?"

"You knew my father?"

"I knew the entire family. Lillian…Peggy…your grandmother, a truly good and beautiful woman. Not that I was a close friend, mind you. Daniel in particular socialized in different circles than I. But an admirer, oh, yes. That I certainly was. Your first name is-?"

So much for their cover story, Remington thought. Still, the truth could be co-opted to serve as its substitute, especially since there wasn't time to produce an alternative. "John."

"Delighted to meet you, John Chalmers." Wycliffe extended his hand for Remington to shake. "And Mrs. Chalmers-?" he added, addressing Laura.

"Laura," she replied.

"Delighted again. Well, John and Laura…welcome to Hambeth. It seems the family torch is passing to the both of you, yes?"

"I suppose that's what we're here to find out," said Remington.

"Indeed. You've come to the right place for it—provided you're able to stick it out."

"Is that your standard advice for newcomers, Mr. Wycliffe?" Laura asked. "It sounds more like a warning to me."

"Did it? I didn't mean it that way. It's just that you've arrived at a difficult time. We're not quite ourselves just now."

"Mr. Hogarth told us about the accidents. I'm sure it's been very upsetting for everyone."

"It has but I wasn't speaking of the accidents particularly. No, no. There are other problems…serious ones…among us."

The Steeles waited, but Wycliffe didn't elaborate. "Perhaps it would help if you understood Mr. Hogarth's character a little better," he said instead. "He's quite brilliant, you know. Has been from the cradle. But hampered by obstacles along the way, mainly a disapproving mother and an absent, peripatetic father. Father's in the business, but never made much out of it, and Hogarth's rather ashamed of him. He was absolutely no help in achieving his son's ambitions, you see."

"But he's been an enormous success anyway. That counts for something, surely," commented Remington.

"He doesn't see it like that. He's the underdog, and other actors are the competition. That attitude has done wonders for his career and for Hambeth's reputation. But on his relationships—professional, personal—it tends to wreak havoc. You may find yourself on the receiving end, John. That's all I'm trying to say."

"I'll bear it in mind. Thank you."

"Think of it as a small return on what I owe your grandfather. I meant it in strictest confidence, of course..."

"We understand," said Laura.

"And hope you'll regard our real names in the same light," added Remington.

"I wouldn't worry that anyone else in the company will recognize you, if I were you. They're all too young to remember Lloyd Chalmers. But I promise I won't breathe a word."

It was as they were seeing him out that Laura said, "I'm curious about something, Mr. Wycliffe. You said Mr. Hogarth looks at other actors as competition. What about you? You've obviously gotten close enough for him to share some very private insights. How did you manage to gain his trust when the others can't?"

"Did I forget to explain?" Hand on the door knob, Wycliffe hesitated, glancing from her to Remington. "Well, I don't suppose there's any harm in telling you. The situation's a little different when it comes to Edmund and me. You see…he's my only son."

He opened the door, and slipped out into the darkness.

* * *

Very early the next morning, Remington was doing the same thing.

Sunrise was more than two hours away, but the prospect of wandering alone through a strange town gave him no qualms. He'd done it in places far seedier than Solvang without coming to any harm. Nor did the throbbing in his ankle—the result, no doubt, of over-exerting himself yesterday-stop him. It couldn't be worse than the mental turmoil that had awakened him at this ungodly hour. Perhaps it would prove an effective counter-balance. Setting his jaw, he willed himself to push through the pain.

The mental turmoil wasn't so easily dismissed. There was acute disappointment in Laura's reaction to the idea of having a child to be got over, and nerve to ask her again to be worked up. Not likely to be an easy feat, that, considering it had taken practically every moment of the last three weeks to talk himself into the first attempt.

He'd allowed her plenty of chances to return to the subject once Wycliffe had taken his leave last night. As they'd talked over the old man's amazing revelation, he'd begun delivering subtle hints, the kind of thing Laura was usually so good at picking up. She'd either adroitly changed the subject or outright ignored them. Finally she'd resorted to the strategy with which she'd outflanked him earlier in the evening. Laura's hands; Laura's mouth; Laura's perfect little body. What chance had he stood against them? None whatever.

And well she knew it! That was what irked him the most. It wasn't enough that they'd been the final catalyst, as it were, for his transformation from incurable global playboy to fiercely monogamous husband. Now she was deliberately using them to seduce him out of pursuing an important conversation with her-! Really she was starting to resemble him much too closely in the depths she would sink to in getting her way.

And there was another thing. The crease that had formed between her brows the moment he'd let slip the word 'baby'? The one he normally loved? He'd known exactly what it signified. The same with the look with which she'd searched his face. She was weighing him, trying to gauge the depth of his sincerity. Can he possibly be serious? she was asking herself.

The memory set off a fresh wave of irritation. She still had so low an estimate of him, had she, that she imagined he'd treat such a momentous decision as a_ joke_? Apparently they hadn't come as long a way in their marriage as they believed. He was half tempted to swing round and head back to the motel to tax her with it.

Then he paused. He hadn't a leg to stand on. After all, which precedent could he point to as proof to the contrary? His business arrangement with Clarissa and their aborted wedding, hooker-attendants and all? His and Laura's wedding on the fishing trawler? It would be tantamount to arming Laura with enough ammunition to blow his argument out of the water, should he be foolish enough to commence hostilities.

He had to admit it was true. Chastened, calmer, he resumed his walk and his train of thought.

As to whether he was serious: hell, yes, he was. As serious as the day the realization burst upon him full blown, the nearest to a personal epiphany he'd ever experienced. He wanted to be a father, and not just in a general sense. He wanted to father a child of Laura's. He wanted Laura to have his baby.

It was remarkable, the power of the prospect of imminent death to awaken dreams you never suspected you had. That was what had happened to him. A month ago, while he lay on the floor of Anna Patton's garden shed, dazed by pain, tormented by thirst, hopes pinned on a rescue whose arrival seemed agonizingly slow, his priorities had undergone a shift of seismic proportions. Nothing about his view of himself and his purpose in life would ever be the same.

Even before he'd spoken to her face-to-face, instinct had warned him that Anna Patton's reappearance portended some kind of monumental upheaval for him and Laura. The only thing he couldn't guess was from what quarter the threat would come.

That was because Anna had had the good sense to conceal her intentions until midway through their first meeting. Her greeting as he approached her in the crowded Santa Monica restaurant conveyed just the right note of surprised delight. "Hello. You're here."

He'd been reasonably certain heading into this confrontation that he'd built up immunity to Anna's physical effect on him. At the sound of her voice he'd inventoried his reaction. No catch in his breathing; no pounding at his heart. To the contrary, he was altogether unmoved.

Across the table they'd sized each other up. Either the years in prison had been kind to her, or she'd spent a tidy sum to repair their ravages, for she was little changed. A few fine lines around the eyes, shorter hair: that was all. He could've conceived no better foil for her icy elegance than the simply cut dress she was wearing. Every movement she made wafted a faint, nostalgia-laden breath of L'Heure Bleue to his nostrils.

None of it had stirred him. Not in the slightest.

Finished with her appraisal of him, she'd inclined towards him discreetly. "I'm glad you came. How are you?"

"Splendid. Thank you." Curt, clipped and to the point. Just this side of rudeness, in plain fact.

She'd absorbed it with grace. It was the one thing he could say about Anna: she was rarely at a disadvantage. "Aren't you going to ask how I am?" she said.

"I would, if it weren't already obvious. Released from prison. Widow of Walter Patton. Heiress to his fortune. Have I left anything out?"

"You seem remarkably well-informed about me. Careful. I might take it into my head to be flattered."

The arrival of a waiter had cut the exchange short, and Remington waited grimly for Anna to place her order. "And yours?" she asked him. "Is it still Chartreuse on the rocks?"

A transparent effort to establish intimacy between them; it had raised his hackles. As if a trivial nod to the past could erase the image of her drawing her pistol and poising herself to shoot him through the heart. Or drown out the poignant echo of Laura's words, uttered as she lay in his arms the previous night, struggling valiantly to accept her failure to dissuade him from this very encounter: "I love you. For my sake, don't forget watching Raymond Marleau die."

So he'd declined Anna's offer of a drink, and turned on her with barely disguised aggression as the waiter withdrew. "There's no use pretending I'd have come today if you hadn't insinuated to my wife that you'd ruin us if I stayed away," he said. "So drop the act, and let's have it."

Past mistress of the carefully staged build-up, she'd allowed the silence to spin out.

"I said let's have it, Anna."

"You're really going to make me say it out loud, aren't you?"

He'd gazed at her.

"It's simple." Good God: were her eyes really shimmering with tears? "I miss you. I want you back."

And then she'd proceeded to tell him that nothing was as it had appeared three years ago. That everything she'd done was so that they could be together. That she hadn't used him as a stepping stone to Walter Patton's fortune. That she had never stopped loving him.

And she'd called him "darling" as she did it.

It was the conversational equivalent of a train wreck or a freak show; much as he couldn't stand to hear it, he couldn't seem to close his ears against it, either. It had also gripped him with an odd feeling of dislocation. One part of him was dispassionate judge, evaluating her performance from the standpoint of a fellow con artist. She was good, all right-very, very good. She'd have had to be to deceive him, let alone Gregor von Knauss and Walter Patton. Objectively he could even admire the seamless operation of her facial expressions and the tone of her voice in achieving the effect she wanted. In another situation it might've elicited applause and a "brava!" or two from him.

The other part of him…that was the man he liked to think he'd become, namesake of gentlemanly Lloyd Chalmers, husband of courageous, upright Laura Steele. That part was seething. What the devil was she playing at? Did she not remember the things she'd said and done, or the context in which she'd said and done them? Did she imagine _he'd _forgotten? Or did she truly believe her charms were so overwhelming that she'd only to crook her finger to bring him on the run, panting to let bygones be bygones?

He became aware that he was barking questions at her, and not very flattering ones, about the night at Club 10, about Marleau's murder, her relationship with Patton, but they didn't leave a trace on his consciousness. The replies flowing with glib facility from Anna's exquisite lips, those were what registered. Rationalizations. Justifications. Romantic importuning.

Sickening, all of it. Quite literally. Nausea had begun to twist his stomach.

Well…wasn't that what happened when you ingested poison?

"Stop right there," he'd said at last. "Even if I believed a word of this nonsense, which I don't, none of it matters. I'm a married man."

"I know. But are you happy?"

He'd bared his teeth. "Deliriously."

"Oh, darling." Gentle laughter had rippled from her. "Who do you think you're kidding? Your loyalty's admirable, it really is. But you needn't maintain the charade with me. We both know what kind of woman you prefer."

For the first time she'd stretched across to touch his hand. He'd snatched it away. He could've sworn it was tingling unpleasantly as he did so. But perhaps that was utter revulsion influencing him.

"-I don't mind sharing you with her, at least for a little while," Anna went on. "It'll give you a delicious basis for comparison. Why, anyone with eyes can see she's not your type. It isn't a marriage of…equals…at all. Is it?"

He'd only felt fury like this a handful of times in his life, the red mist blurring his vision, the shaking that originated at the core of him. It briefly stunned him motionless and speechless. Probably that was for the best. Otherwise he'd have had a hard time restraining his hands from closing around the smooth white column of Anna's throat.

Shoving his chair away from the table, he got to his feet. "There's a name for women like you, and it's not a pretty one," he'd said, his voice unrecognizable in his own ears. "As for my wife, you're not fit to wipe her shoes on. Go near her again—threaten her again—and I'll see you live to regret it." And he'd started to move away.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

He'd turned. She was laying a large envelope in the center of the table. Her tiny close-mouthed smile proclaimed that she held the highest trump, one he wouldn't be able to beat.

As soon as she revealed the contents—his detailed notes for the robbery, the photographs of Anna with the jewels—he'd had to agree.

Of course he'd recognized the pictures immediately: they weren't the kind a man would easily forget. Snapped in his room on the rue Souta Riba in Roquebrune-Cap-Martin, as he recalled. He'd slipped in with the fruits of a successful heist just as dawn was breaking to find Anna waiting for him in his bed. The sapphires and diamonds were dazzling, his reliable old Leica near at hand, and Anna had snuck away from powerful, wealthy Gregor von Knauss to seduce _him_. And one thing had led to another.

As to how the schematics had ended up in her clutches, he was less sure. "Where did you get these?" he'd demanded.

"Does it matter?"

"Evidently not. What do you intend on doing with them?"

She'd kept her eyes on him as she slid the papers back into the envelope. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"All I want is the chance to win you back. I know I can do it, if only you'll let me try. As soon as we're together again—oh, darling, the pictures, the papers, they're all yours. A package deal. In the meantime, think of them as…incentive."

"Blackmail, you mean."

"Call it what you like, I won't use them unless you force my hand. You won't, will you? You _will _give me a second chance?"

He'd risen without replying and stalked out. Somehow through the red haze and the shaking he'd located the agency limo and stumbled into the back of it. "The office, Fred," were the only words he'd managed to utter before he surrendered to rage.

If he hadn't already learned how fully Laura had become his anchor as well as his wife, that ride to Century City would've persuaded him. It was the only thought in his head, getting back to her so he could spill out all his pent up anger and repugnance. God, he'd needed her, and badly. Her lovely lilting voice, the silk of her hair, the feel of her fine bones and slender curves as he held her: they would restore his world to soundness and sanity. Just as undressing her and caressing every inch of her later, and then lying in her embrace, would remove the last traces of Anna's taint.

She'd done that for him and more besides. She wouldn't have been the Laura he loved if she hadn't rushed to his rescue as soon as she properly understood what he was up against. Her first plan was so gutsy and smart he'd wanted to smack his forehead for not thinking of it himself. Stealing the evidence from Anna! And when that failed through no fault of theirs, it was Laura who'd insisted they capitalize on Anna's greatest weakness. Overly confident of her power over the men she fancied, Anna had practically handed him the perfect opportunity for getting close enough to retrieve the papers from right under her nose. It would be criminal for them to waste it.

Ah, he'd dug in his heels at first! Mainly it was because of his distinct aversion to spending even so much as a second more in Anna's company, though there were other elements of Laura's proposal he'd found almost as objectionable. Pretending in public that Laura was cheating on him was one. Portraying her in a negative light to Anna was another. But then it had occurred to him that he could adapt the plan to serve the consideration that outweighed all the others: keeping Laura safe without letting on that he was doing so. A complacent Anna was far less likely to entertain the notion of eliminating her feminine rival. If he held hard to that, made it the center of every decision, he might just be able to pull off the charade.

Rejecting Laura's conception of the way he ought to play it—he flatly refused to expose her to Anna's criticism, no matter how willing she was to pretend she was being unfaithful—he'd developed one on his own. The beauty of it lay in the fact that it wasn't so far outside the realm of possibility that Anna would suspect a set-up. The former rogue, tired of the straight-and-narrow, searching for an escape, any escape, from the tedium: that was who he'd be. Regretting the loss of old mates and old haunts. Bored with honest work. Unsuited to monogamy. Married to a woman much too good for him, whose standards he feared he couldn't live up to. Coupled to a deployment of his arsenal of romantic wiles, how could it miss?

But on second thought, he wasn't so sure. He'd run countless seduction cons in the old days, but never while so deeply in love as he was with Laura. It was one thing to woo a woman to whom you were indifferent when your heart was otherwise unengaged. To do it when you had a wife you adored—and the mark was a woman you'd once loved, but had come to despise and fear—was a cat of a different color. His skills, impressive as they were, might not be adequate for the challenge.

So it was with something akin to jitters that he'd delivered the opening line in his charm offensive. He and Anna were about to have coffee in the ground-floor bistro at the hotel in which she was living; she'd joined him at his invitation. He could only pray that his expression had achieved the level of sheepishness he'd practiced in front of his mirror. "I couldn't keep away," he'd said.

Anna had responded with a tremulous smile. "Welcome back…darling."

This time, when she reached for his hand, he was able to suppress his shudder and wind his fingers through hers.

It was more difficult than any job he'd undertaken, he soon discovered, and that was saying something, considering his multiple thefts of _The Five Nudes of Cairo_. He hadn't factored in the toll it would take on him. No matter that he was careful to maintain an emotional distance from Anna, like an actor performing a part; as the days went by the double life he was leading had begun to wear him down. It was hard, often incredibly hard, to disguise his contempt for her, the horror that assailed him when he remembered the coldness with which she'd gunned down Marleau. There were moments when it was all he could do to check the impulse to drop the mask, dare her to do her worst with the papers, and declare that if he never crossed paths with her again in this life, it would be too soon.

But that was nothing compared to watching circumstances eat away at Laura's faith in him.

She'd thought he didn't notice. Of that he was convinced. She thought he didn't see her fighting every morning to put on her game face and carry on as if everything were normal. Or how she inhaled a steadying breath and squared her shoulders each time he went off to keep another appointment with Anna. She'd thought she successfully concealed it, the return of the old wariness to her dark eyes. More than a lurking fear that she'd made a dreadful mistake and by and by she'd suffer for it, it was wariness of _him_. Typical Laura: she wouldn't have admitted it aloud if her life depended on it. But he'd recognized it anyway. And though he couldn't blame her for it, it had cut him to the heart.

If only he were a different sort of man, one who hadn't any trouble expressing his feelings! Never before had he wished it so fervently. Then he could've poured out the reassurances she needed to hear. As it was, he could only try and show her. Lots of love-making, constant physical affection, spending every possible minute with her—were they enough? Could they substitute for the words that he, craven idiot that he was, couldn't manage nine times out of ten?

He'd agonized over it, over her, especially as Anna suddenly went on the defensive, hiring a detective to tail the Steeles and demanding proof of Remington's changed feelings toward her. The only solution he could think of on both counts was to remove to a hotel. At least it would deflect Anna's attention from Laura. Sensible as he believed the idea was, he hoped he wouldn't ever again give Laura cause to wear the expression she had when he broke the news to her.

It was the first of a series of blows Anna had dealt her. It had shaken her badly when Anna interrupted them in the midst of an intimate moment in his hotel room and then turned up at Windsor Square the following morning to antagonize her. Granted, Laura had picked herself up in the aftermath and with defiantly tilted chin gone on as if nothing was wrong. But beneath her surface bravado he'd spied signs of a truth that terrified him.

Because she was nearing the end of her rope, that was why. They were losing ground in their relationship every day. If he didn't end Anna's blackmail soon, they would be back to square one, trust and intimacy in complete ruins. Laura would slip away from him.

Anna herself had handed him the opening he sought by inviting him to cruise with her from Malibu to San Diego aboard _The English Rose_, the yacht she'd inherited from her late husband.

He was frankly daydreaming that evening as Fred drove them back to her home base, the Rexford Palms Hotel—he'd discovered to his astonishment that Anna outside the bedroom was a crashing bore—but her question had jerked him back to full attention. "Eh?"

"If we leave early Friday morning, we'll be in San Diego by evening. Then we can spend the day in town on Saturday and be back Sunday night. That is, assuming you'll want to make it to work on Monday."

Struggling to catch up, he'd blinked at her arch smile.

"It'll be just like the old days. Remember how we used to say that as soon as we'd made our fortunes, it was off on a cruise around the world? Unless-" she was regarding him with her head on one side "—you don't think you can get away."

She'd said enough to fill him in on what he'd missed, thank God, but he'd suffered a couple seconds' panic while groping for an off-the-cuff refusal that wouldn't stir her suspicions. "I do work for a living."

"You wouldn't have to if you'd let me share what ought to be yours anyway."

"Out of the question, and you know it."

"Oh, but darling, you'll only miss one day at the office," she'd insisted, returning to the attack. "And you're the head of the firm, aren't you? Surely you're entitled to play hooky once in a while."

"It isn't that."

"Then what?"

"If you're expecting what I think you're expecting to happen…I'm not ready." And he'd fixed her with a gaze that brimmed over with meaning.

"I realize that. We'll have separate rooms at the hotel, I promise. Though I give you fair warning, I'm hoping that by the end of the weekend I'll have changed your mind." She'd squeezed his hand. "After I've given you a new reason to trust me."

She'd allowed the silence to continue unbroken just long enough for effect before switching smoothly to another subject entirely. Once again, he'd barely listened to her. Only this time his preoccupation came not from boredom, but growing excitement.

Later on he would recognize with chagrin how expertly she'd played him, but while the moment was unfolding, one thing had seemed clear. A "new reason to trust her" must mean that she was about to turn the papers over to him. Whether it also meant his charm offensive had succeeded, he couldn't tell. But it hardly mattered. Even if she did have some plot afoot—and he wouldn't put it past her—she would bring the papers along on Friday. Cruising with her might very well prove the means of ending her nasty little reign of terror for good.

Him: back where he belonged, at Laura's side. The trust he'd seen in her eyes on the stairs at Castagnoli's restored. How could he pass up the best chance he'd had yet to achieve those goals?

At the Rexford Palms he'd accompanied Anna to the door and offered the chaste kiss that was the most he could stomach without betraying his reluctance to touch her. "What time are you planning to start on Friday?" he'd asked.

The gray eyes had glowed like stars. "At first light."

"I'll be there."

Los Angeles had been experiencing an unusually hot January, and Friday's weather was no exception. He'd found Anna waiting for him in the _Rose's_ galley, a teak-outfitted space twice the size of his kitchen at Windsor Square. "Fresh fruit and croissants," she'd greeted him, filling a plate. "Would a Bloody Mary hit the spot, or would you prefer coffee?"

Light-headed from lack of sleep, he'd opted for the coffee and sipped thankfully when it came. It was his own fault; the night before he'd snuck home under cover of darkness and spent the bulk of it making love with Laura. But this was one occasion when he was happy to bear the blame. If the way she'd kissed him good morning was any indication, he'd succeeded in laying to rest any jealous fears Laura might've harbored. As for himself, he'd more than girded his loins, so to speak, for today's ordeal. Any time the unpleasantness threatened to get the better of him, he could close his eyes and summon up the memory of the two of them, lost in each other. And all would be right with him again.

As soon as the captain cast off and the yacht was heading for open water, he and Anna had emerged topside at her suggestion to watch the sunrise. No doubt she expected it to call up romantic associations with mornings they'd spent together in Monte Carlo. That she wasn't in the mood for conversation was an enormous relief.

After a long time she'd breathed what sounded like a sigh of contentment and turned to take his hand. "I'm glad you're here."

"So am I," he'd replied.

And, inwardly gritting his teeth, had set himself to endure.

Not surprisingly, the day dragged. Around eleven o'clock Anna went below deck to change into a bikini, looking pleased when he followed her example. But she raised her brows at his choice of swim trunks versus the Speedo that would've been practically _de rigeur_ on the Mediterranean. "How very…American…you've become, darling," she'd said as he flopped onto the chaise lounge she'd placed beside hers. "I'm not sure I like it."

He'd hidden a smile.

There was a crew member on hand, supplying snacks and sandwiches, and she even replenished their drinks at regular intervals. He'd barely had time to enjoy any of it. Within ten minutes of stretching out beneath the hot sun, he was fast asleep.

It was an unconscionable lapse on his part, a dropping of his guard that he would never confess to Laura, who'd feared—with good reason-that Anna planned to kill him on board the _Rose_ and toss his body over the side. For once he'd have agreed with his wife's denunciation of his foolhardiness. Hell, he was aghast at himself. It would've been just desserts if Anna _had_ murdered him on the spot.

She hadn't, though she'd looked as if she could've done so quite cheerfully when at last he'd awakened. By the angle of the sun he knew that the afternoon was well advanced. "Good Lord," he'd muttered. "How long was I asleep?"

Long enough for me to shower and change, she might have snapped. Instead she said tersely, "Hours. It's almost five o'clock. And we'll be docking soon."

Nothing could've delighted him more. He'd hidden it beneath a big show of contrition. "An inconsiderate beast, that's what I've been, spoiling the afternoon. I'm sorry. You'll let me make it up to you, darling?"

Her response was the sultriest smile in her repertoire. Too bad it was wasted on him. All he could think was, almost ten hours down.

Only forty-eight to go.

TO BE CONTINUED


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Though he'd spent less than an hour of the forty-eight at Anna's favorite hotel in San Diego, Remington remembered it vividly.

She'd booked adjoining rooms for them and directed the porter to open the connecting doors the moment he set down their bags. Then she'd proceeded to carry on a running conversation with Remington through the open doorway while she did whatever it was she was doing in her room. Perhaps "running monologue" was a more accurate description. For, staring out of his window with his back to her, he'd failed conspicuously to hold up his end. To tell the truth, he'd barely heard her.

That was because it was the nearest he'd been to a telephone the entire day. He'd needed all the self-control he could muster not to snatch it up immediately and ring Laura to let her know he was all right. If only Anna would shut up and leave him in peace! He'd recognized the familiar signs of emotional claustrophobia starting to build up in him, his jaw clenching, the muscles tightening at the base of his skull. Trapped. Pinned down. If he wasn't careful, he'd be sprinting for the first available exit soon.

She couldn't help but notice, and advanced a few feet into his room. "Darling?"

"Hm?"

"You're awfully quiet. You aren't having second thoughts, are you?"

"Perish the thought." Glancing over his shoulder, he'd attempted a smile that felt more like a grimace. "I suppose I'm feeling guilty about this afternoon. You deserve better. In my own defense, I will say I burnt the middle oil a little too long last night. Detective work is never nine to five."

"I forgive you. After all, you did say you'd make it up to me. And I'm going to hold you to it."

While she was speaking she'd moved closer to him. Before he could understand quite how she managed it, she'd slid between him and the window and wound her arms around his neck. He was still struggling not to recoil yet subtly detach himself when she fastened her mouth on his.

It was shock to his senses, and not a welcome one. Up until then he'd succeeded in keeping her at arm's length, sexually speaking, tendering various excuses—his upbringing in the Church, his unwillingness to make a decision he couldn't take back—but the depth of her kiss was a clear signal that those wouldn't pacify her much longer. As for him, he couldn't help comparing it to the night at Rossmore that had marked her resurrection from the dead. Dizzy with joy and disbelief that it was really her rather than the dead ringer (Bette Davis, Peter Lawford, 1964, who else but Warner Brothers, seeing it was Davis?) he'd supposed, not one whit inhibited by the thought that he'd been with Laura half an hour earlier, he'd clasped her to him and practically devoured her. Was she remembering it, too? he wondered. And contrasting it to his reception of her now?

Lukewarm. That was probably a generous description for it. He'd been right to worry his skills weren't up to snuff. Nothing in his previous experience or Daniel's tuition had prepared him for a situation like this, feigning passion for a woman who'd years ago lost every iota of appeal for him. But that shouldn't have mattered, should it? With his freedom, Laura's safety and their marriage on the line? Wasn't he a better con man than that?

Apparently it _didn't_ matter where Anna was concerned. At least there was nothing in her eyes except desire as she drew back from him. That's what it looked like, at any rate. Though with Anna, who could be certain?

He'd raised a satirical brow. "What was that for?"

"Oh…my way of making sure you'll miss me while I'm gone." She smiled a closed-lipped Mona Lisa smile and glanced at her watch. "Speaking of which, I'll be late for my appointment if I don't fly-"

An appointment? He'd missed something, then, in the torrent of inane conversation she'd poured over him. She was leaving?

_She was leaving. _

_He'd have his room, her room—and a few minutes- to himself._

Time enough to ring Laura? No, better than that: to look for the papers, which, if retrieved, would allow him to flee San Diego a full twenty-four hours sooner than he and Laura had originally anticipated.

"Ah, yes, your…appointment," he'd hazarded.

"With the masseur? Honestly, haven't you been listening at all?"

Some nugget must've penetrated, fortunately; guiding her toward the door with a hand at the small of her back, he'd replied, "Nonsense. Part of your routine, didn't you say it was? Good to know you haven't altered it on my account."

"Perhaps I should, next time."

"Perhaps you should." Of his own accord he'd put his arms around her and gazed soulfully into her eyes. "I'll be counting the minutes til you get back."

Once the obligatory good-bye kiss was mercifully over and she'd gone, he counted ten. Then he'd inched the door open a crack and peered out. There was the briefest glimpse of Anna disappearing down the corridor that led to the elevator. Just to be safe he counted to fifty before fastening the bolt and springing into action.

Her suitcases were closed but not locked. With the expertise borne of long experience he examined their contents, his technique so deft that it was impossible to detect that they'd been disturbed. Last of all his sensitive fingertips had swept over interiors and exteriors in search of hidden pockets. He found nothing.

Could she have secreted the papers somewhere on board the _Rose_?

Pausing in the center of her room, he'd pondered his options. Of course there was every possibility that Anna had simply baited the hook with an allusion to the evidence for her own inscrutable purposes, but left them in Los Angeles. Which meant in effect that he was once again jumping through the hoops she'd placed for him, just as he had three years ago to "protect" her from Marleau. But if he wasn't? And the white envelope was mere blocks away? Wasn't it worth the risk of checking it out?

He'd flashed to the image of Laura waiting on the sharpest pins and needles for word from him, and knew the answer had to be yes.

His departure from the hotel was unobserved; a cab ride cut his travel time to Summergold Marina to just a little over five minutes. Excellent: it afforded him the chance to watch the Patton yacht for signs of the crew. Assured that it was unoccupied, at least for now, he'd ducked below deck.

His professional instincts had operated with dependable efficiency in formulating a plan of attack. The yacht's living quarters consisted of a main salon with an adjacent dining room, a smaller sun room, a teak-paneled study, the galley, and a master and three guest cabins. The galley and guest cabins he eliminated at the outset, since people generally didn't install safes in rooms to which others had unrestricted access. He had forty minutes maximum to explore the rest.

He'd fallen to work. And, with twenty minutes still on the clock, was sliding back a recessed panel in the wooden base of an elegant sectional in the salon, exposing the safe it housed. Fifty-seven seconds to tease out the combination. An additional forty-one to extract the photos and house plans from the envelope, slip them inside his shirt, and start setting everything back to rights.

Truly he didn't hear the footsteps approaching until they were halfway along the companionway. Another example of sloppiness, carelessness, on his part: his imagination had jumped ahead of itself and was painting his and Laura's reunion with loving detail. Prematurely, as it happened. By the time he was alert to the danger he was in, it was far too late to run.

Odd how quietly the moment when Anna came through the door had played out. He would've expected a burst of drama from her or an air of menace. But she'd only looked him and then at the open panel, commenting dryly, "This wasn't at all what I pictured when you said you'd be counting the minutes til you saw me again."

In silence they faced each other over the barrel of her gun. He tried to fathom her expression, but there was nothing to read. It was as empty of rage or resentment as it was of surprise.

She said: "Before you're tempted to even think of not cooperating with me, let me tell you something. There's been a detective watching you and your wife since the day you met me in Santa Monica-"

He opened his mouth to interrupt; she cut him off with a gesture.

"—and he has your wife under surveillance right now. With orders, I should add. If he doesn't hear from me at a specific hour, he's to kill her. So you see? Whatever you're up to, you may as well give up." Another gesture, but with the gun. "Now. Put the papers on the table and turn around."

Hardly daring to breathe, he'd obeyed. There was a rustle and a soft click—the evidence returned to its hiding spot, he supposed. Meanwhile panic was fomenting in him, not so much at his own predicament but Laura's. He'd take direction as best he could from here on out in the hope of saving her life, but how much good would that do, when he was separated from her by hundreds of miles, effectively prevented from warning her, his every syllable and movement subject to the caprices of a woman who committed murder as dispassionately as she might step on an ant?

Icy calm, mate, he'd admonished himself. Icy calm. And keep your wits about you.

Advice that went completely down the drain as soon as Anna okayed him to turn back to her and posed her first question. "_She_ put you up to this, didn't she?"

"Her name is Laura. Of course she didn't."

"Of course she did. But you'll never admit it, will you?"

He'd swallowed. "No."

"That's honest, anyway. And awfully chivalrous. That's what I remember best, you know, that misguided but charming protectiveness of yours. It's why I thought of you when Raymond resurfaced in my life and began annoying me."

"Really? I thought it was my gullibility. That and the fact that I loved you."

"They're one and the same, aren't they? I mean…here we are. Again." She'd waved him toward a chair. "Sit down."

He did. So did she. Then, in unconscious imitation of their meeting in Santa Monica, she'd spilled the beans, as it were. Except these centered on her resolve to shut him up permanently, conceived well before her appearance at the Huntington Ritz on New Year's Eve. It was an astonishing recital that covered everything from Clayton Endicott's shooting the previous night to how and where she planned to finish him, Steele, off, delivered with…_pride_. She was literally preening herself on her brilliance and ingenuity. And she was inviting him to join her.

He could only gape. Either she was supremely stupid or supremely self-confident, revealing the details to him. Didn't she realize she was handing him enough ammunition to see her imprisoned for good? He'd only to take advantage of the first opportunity to overpower her, seize the gun, and turn her over to the authorities.

And if he didn't bring it off? Mucked it up somehow, or got himself killed in the process? How long would Laura live afterwards?

She'd tied his hands neatly, Anna had. Small wonder she wasn't in the least shy about sharing her intentions with him. She knew there wasn't a thing he could do about them.

What prompted the question he asked when she finally finished-whether it was a genuine need for information or an effort to gain back a little of her confidence—he wasn't sure. But he'd hesitated for a beat, and then said, "Tell me something. No doubt it's a moot point by now…But did you ever love me at all?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Call it wounded vanity."

That seemed to flatter her; her face softened a little. "I _liked _you, of course. Who could help it? You were marvelous in bed…we had such fun together. And it was rather endearing, how smitten you were with me."

"Not to mention useful. Can't forget that."

"Well, you'd so clearly pegged me as a damsel in distress, I couldn't bear to disappoint you. Or deny you the manly thrill of riding to my rescue."

It was a truth he'd accepted long ago. He'd said as much to Laura last summer when they'd rehashed his history with Anna at the Monte Carlo Beach Hotel. What he hadn't reckoned on was how much it would hurt to hear Anna say it out loud.

He'd covered it with heavy sarcasm. "Glad I could be of service."

"Sorry, darling." She shrugged. "No offense intended. Love's never been a priority of mine. If it's any consolation, you came closer than anyone to winning my heart. What a pity it is you've never gotten rich."

Briskly she'd risen to her feet, ending their tête-à-tête, and motioned him to precede her towards the study. "I hope you haven't forgotten all your old tricks," she said as he'd settled uneasily in the chair behind a desk that had probably been Walter Patton's.

"I think it's safe to say I've a few up my sleeve."

"Good. Because you're going to write your wife a letter."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Two reasons. One, you're going to announce you've stolen away with me so convincingly that she won't dream of looking for you."

"And the other?"

"If you don't, I'll have her killed," she said calmly. "Do begin, darling. Keep it short and sweet. Call me when you've finished so I can have a look." And she'd sauntered from the room.

There was no use wasting his time in hunting for a way out; Anna would never have granted him privacy if escape were even a remote possibility. Instead he'd frowned down at the paper. Short and sweet. Embedded with clues that would lead Laura to his and Anna's destination in Malibu. But written with enough nastiness to pass Anna's gimlet-eyed scrutiny.

Well, those were certainly some easy parameters to work within.

Concentrating on Laura and the shared intuition that was the hallmark of their professional partnership helped. Soon the idea was flowing from him naturally, the weaving in of hidden references to Pramagiorre. So were the right words and how to say them. Indeed, a self-congratulatory smile had quirked his lips as he penned the salutation. "Darling". _That _would grab her attention as nothing else could.

He'd told Anna he still had a few tricks up his sleeve, hadn't he? He'd just neglected to specify for whose benefit he was harnessing them.

The letter completed, he'd begun noiselessly to open and shut drawers in search of the final element he needed to advance his plan. In the lowest he found it, sheets of coarse brown wrapping paper. He'd seized one and poised his pencil to draw.

That the end product was basically a rough scrawl didn't matter in the least. He wasn't aiming for perfection, but an approximation. As long as Laura recognized it for what it was, the pose in which he'd last sketched her, it would serve its purpose: reassurance that he loved her. She would stumble across it when she studied the wrapping for clues the way she always did. And it would prompt her to move heaven and earth until she found him. All there remained to do was quickly slide the wrapping paper into the drawer before calling Anna.

"How delightfully callous," was her verdict on the letter. "I didn't think you had it in you. But what does it mean, she gave your ring back to you?"

"A case in Italy," he said, his tone bland. "She proposed pursuing it alone against my objections. We had a terrific row and she handed me her ring before she left. Obviously we reunited"-by now he was putting on an act of just happening to discover the wrapping paper—"but she won't have forgotten."

Without allowing her a chance to reply, he'd removed his wedding band. That cost him a pang or two; he had to fight to keep his expression as bland as his voice. His hands, however, were perfectly steady as he wrapped the band in the paper containing the sketch and held it out to Anna. "Take it. I'd rather you sent it with the letter anyway, if I'm to meet my Maker tonight."

For a terrifying second he'd feared he was a dead man after all; on accepting the little package, Anna had unfolded the paper. But it was only to slip the letter inside. Otherwise she seemed to have noticed nothing out of the ordinary. His sigh of relief was necessarily an internal one, but no less heartfelt.

She was reaching for the tape dispenser on top of the desk. "What makes you think I'm sending it to her?"

"I merely assumed. Earlier you said-"

"She's a brilliant detective, resourceful and intuitive. Isn't that what you've told me?"

He'd described Laura in exactly those terms, and more besides, while comparing his flaws to her virtues. "I-"

"Then she should be turning up sometime in the next day or two to look for you."

"Very likely."

She'd sealed the package with a last strip of tape and tossed it to him. "I'm going to see to it that her search ends here."

The two men who staffed the marina office had paused in their work as Remington and Anna crossed the threshold arm in arm. There was something in the men's joint gaze, something avid and knowing, that struck Remington as a terrible insult to him. They were jumping to the sort of conclusions that women like Anna tended to foster, he thought. He didn't appreciate it one bit.

Anna had done her best to encourage them, strolling up to the counter with a warm smile. "Something I can help you with?" one of the men asked her.

"Anna Patton. I own _The English Rose_, slip one ninety-eight."

"Your captain was in a while ago," said the other man. "Said you're off on a long cruise?"

"That's right. I'm wondering if you'd do us a favor." She nudged Remington with her right hip. On the surface it looked sexy, suggestive; in reality it was a material reminder of the pistol he could feel through the pocket of her beautifully tailored slacks. "Go on, darling."

She'd left it up to him to hand the package over. As he did, he said, "Unless I'm mistaken, you should have a visitor tomorrow or next day. Slender brunette with knockout legs. She'll be asking a lot of questions. Give her this, will you?"

"Here's a little something to make it worth your while," added Anna. Two one-hundred-dollar bills materialized from her other pocket; she laid them on the counter. "There'll be a hundred more for each of you next time I come through…as long as _you_ come through."

The first man had scooped up the money and the package. "This chick asking questions. You want me to tell her we saw you guys together, or what?"

"Absolutely. I insist you make a point of it."

"Gotcha."

Conscious of the men's admiring, envious eyes upon him, Remington had turned towards the door at Anna's signal. He was smoldering, his face aflame. She'd deliberately created the impression that he, Remington, was a creepy philanderer ditching one woman for another! Yes, that was what he'd looked like to those men. Is that how Laura would see him through their eyes tomorrow? And what would they, in turn, see reflected in hers? Shame? Shock? The final unraveling of her already threadbare trust?

Ah, but his little sketch would restore it. He was counting on that. Inhaling a deep breath, he'd sought and found his lost equilibrium.

Good thing he had, for Anna's next move wasn't designed to calm jangled nerves. Prodding him back to the _Rose_, she'd forced him to wait with her until the marina lights were extinguished and it had grown totally quiet. There nothing for him to do but drink interminable cups of coffee and rebuff her attempts at conversation—reminiscences, mostly. He was ready to tear out his hair with frustration and pent-up adrenaline.

It was midnight before she deemed it safe to disembark from the yacht. Once behind the wheel of her silver Ferrari, he'd made for northbound Interstate 5, but Anna had initiated an immediate course correction by means of the pistol pointed at his head. Apparently she'd worked out an elaborate route to Malibu that ran solely along back roads, bypassing the highway altogether. He'd calculated that it would nearly double their drive time. But he'd no choice but to follow it.

That was why it was near on sunrise when they finally reached the Pattons' oceanfront estate in Malibu. Maneuvering the Ferrari down the slope that led to the garage, Remington was preparing himself for action. The seven-hour journey had offered him plenty of opportunity to put together an escape plan. Given their proximity to Los Angeles, it wouldn't jeopardize Laura unduly, he'd reasoned. And it was easy to execute. One: fling open the car door as soon as they'd stopped. Two: run like hell.

He'd have succeeded, too, if not for the bloody barbed wire.

A rusted length hidden by scrubby undergrowth, it had taken him unawares as he pelted up the slope toward the access road, Anna far behind him. The right leg of his jeans had snagged on a jagged edge, tripping him. He'd sprawled headlong with the denim and the flesh beneath it ripped open by the treacherous metal; his cry of pain had rent the humid morning air.

Anna came up with him while he was still working to free himself. For the first time, emotion was visible on her face. Anger at being caught off guard, cold and vicious, was how he read it. "You're not usually this stupid," she'd hissed, leveling the pistol at him.

He'd had to brush the hair out of his eyes to see her properly. "No," he'd agreed, out of breath. "But I'm not usually this desperate, either." And his whole body had tensed, waiting for the slug to slam into him.

It never did. Instead she'd stood by and watched, lips pressed into a hard line, until he'd torn away from the last section of wire. Then, incredibly, she'd made him rise to his feet. The gasp he'd given as he put weight on his ankle for the first time didn't seem to affect her at all.

He'd appealed to her softer side anyway. "I think it's sprained."

"You should've thought of that, shouldn't you? Move."

Jaw clenched, he'd hobbled on ahead of her. Every step was torture, try though he did to favor his right ankle as much as possible. The gash in his leg had throbbed and bled copiously. Never for a second could he forget the gun aimed at the back of his head.

Just as he had with the disposal of the package, he'd taken for granted that Anna intended to imprison him in one of the houses. An off-target assumption, as it turned out. For their destination was a garden shed he remembered well from a reconnoiter he and Laura had undertaken shortly after New Year's.

Panting from exertion, pouring sweat in the eighty-degree-plus heat, he'd gazed at Anna incredulously. "Here?"

She'd passed him the key to the padlock. "The compound is completely secluded, as you've probably noticed. There isn't a neighbor for miles. As far as everyone knows, I'm leaving Los Angeles for good. Utilities cancelled, garden service dismissed." Swinging the door wide, she'd directed him forward. "Go in and make yourself comfortable."

Probably it was the suffering she was inflicting on him that had swept away his last reserves of caution. For weeks he'd been biting his tongue, clamping down on the urge to lash out at this woman with the full measure of the hostility and contempt she inspired in him. Was there any more need for restraint? None that he could see. And this was his last chance to set the record straight.

Perhaps there was a vague impulse towards vengeance, too.

So he'd faced her squarely and through gritted teeth had allowed the truth free rein.

He said: "Just so there's no misunderstanding between us, let me give you a parting word, eh? You think I'd have left my wife for you, do you? Think again. It's been a sham, every moment I've spent with you."

She didn't reply.

"A sham," he'd repeated, his voice rising. "A pretense. I was pretending for Laura's sake to protect her from you. It made me sick, pretending, because _she's _the one I love..."

Again Anna was silent. But deep in her eyes a spark of anger was kindling.

"Nothing on earth could've induced me to choose you over her. I don't love you. I'd have never gone back to you-"

"I heard you the first time."

"Then you know I mean what I say."

There was another interval of silence, more dreadful than its predecessor, in which two angry people confronted each other without their masks, and hated what they saw.

Then, suddenly, Anna had shoved him.

He'd reeled backward into the shed and landed on the floor, bracing again for the bullet that would finish him off. But though she'd stood over him, hard-faced and unsmiling, she'd put the gun back into her pocket. "I was going to say thanks for the memories, but it doesn't seem apropos just now," she'd remarked. At the door she'd glanced back at him for the last time. "Goodbye…Remington Steele."

They were the same words with which she'd bidden him farewell seconds before pulling the trigger at Club Ten.

And then the door was closing behind her, and he was alone in the heat and darkness with his swollen ankle and festering leg.

In the beginning he'd simply settled in cheerfully to wait. It was just a matter of time until his failure to contact Laura sent her flying to San Diego in search of him, he was convinced. Seven o'clock was the hour they'd agreed upon. It was—he consulted his watch—forty-five minutes short of that now. If she set off immediately, it was well within the realm of possibility, considering the way she drove, that she'd make it back to Malibu around noon or a little past it.. Meanwhile, better not to dwell on the heat, his thirst, or the increasingly unbearable pain; fix his mind instead on his lovely love, his Laura. Soon she would be here.

He dozed and woke and dozed again in a cycle that lasted several hours and produced vivid dreams permeated by stress, conflict and loss. But at length discomfort from the rising temperature had banished sleep permanently. He'd crawled about on hands and knees, hunting for a marginally cooler spot to lie in, but eventually abandoned it as useless. There was no relief to be had. Behind a couple of empty rubbish bins he'd stretched out full length on his back and stared up into the dusky eaves.

Still Laura hadn't come. Optimism had waned proportionately. Dark musings on nemesis had taken its place.

Well, but how could he have helped it? Deep down it was what he believed, despite Laura's best efforts to persuade him otherwise. He would never outrun it, he'd told her not so long ago. No matter where he went, it would find him. And it would snatch from him the life and the woman he'd never deserved in the first place. Or, conversely, snatch _him_ from _them_.

It was a prospect that would've provoked tears if he were that kind of man. Even he, cynic that he was, found his eyes stinging slightly. Leave Laura now, in the midst of their happiness? When there was so much they'd yet to be and do and explore together? He hadn't watched her run the Boston Marathon. She hadn't seen him exhibit his paintings. They hadn't spent June in Menton. They hadn't made love on a moonlit beach in Maui or in the Fiji Islands, they hadn't celebrated their first anniversary, they hadn't had a child, they hadn't met—

_A child_?

A foreign notion if ever there was one. Where the hell had it come from? His own subconscious, no doubt, originating from a carefully suppressed desire to replicate the family he'd never had.

What if it had? That was no reason to dismiss it out of hand. After all, marriage, embarked upon with a woman who was as seriously committed as Laura, had provided a far larger scope for the giving and receiving of joy than he could've dreamed. What if the same were true for parenthood?

He'd considered it with growing enthusiasm for as long as coherent thought remained possible. Finally he couldn't hold out against the physical forces that were sapping his strength. Little by little a state akin to twilight sleep had overcome him—a precursor, he'd discovered later, to the coma into which he'd have fallen if heat exhaustion had worsened into heat stroke.

It hadn't. Laura had rescued him with hours to spare. The next thing he knew, he was somehow lying on the ground outdoors—her doing, obviously—and she was bathing him with cool water. And her hands were so gentle, stroking his hair off his forehead…and her dark eyes had shone with tears she'd fought to hide from him as she kissed him over and over and murmured that she loved him…

God, she would make a wonderful mother.

The thought had recurred later, when she'd returned victorious to his hospital room after the ultimate showdown with Anna. She'd confronted the murdering hussy head on, risked her life in the process-for him! It was all he could do not to demonstrate his devotion then and there. He'd had to be content with coaxing her to spend the night with him in his hospital bed, where he'd marveled afresh at her courage and determination and lioness heart.

What man wouldn't want such a wife—such a woman!—to be the mother of his child?

The problem was, he'd no idea what Laura wanted. While she was clearly fond of their nephew and nieces, she'd never exhibited the slightest inclination to mother them—at least, not what he understood American motherhood to be, based on his sister-in-law's example. Yes, Laura had made a memorable remark early in their marriage about calling a son after his grandfather if they had one, but it was under extraordinary circumstances, and he could hardly rely on it as proof of her conviction. Consequently he'd kept the newly minted desire for a baby under wraps. Until last night, that was—

A stab of pain from his ankle brought him back to himself. The sky had lightened considerably; his watch told him he'd been treading the streets of Solvang for almost an hour. High time to head back to the motel, though he was no closer to resolving his dilemma.

But he had come to a decision, he found, arrived at while reliving the Anna debacle. He'd put Laura through far too much lately as it was; he couldn't pressure her on such a delicate subject now. Gentle persuasion: that was the ticket. Slowly, irresistibly, he'd win her over, the beautiful brown-eyed girl he loved.

A brilliant strategy. Of course, it would benefit him as well as Laura, protecting him from posing the direct question he hadn't the nerve to ask again.

Because a fear that the answer would be no—as in, no baby-was beginning to germinate in him.

And if it _were_ no? What would he do then?

TO BE CONTINUED


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"What in bloody hell do you want?" demanded Aubrey St. Mark.

From the corridor outside his dressing room, Laura stood her ground, notebook in hand. "I'm here for my apprentice session. Mr. Hogarth said he arranged it with you."

"I'm busy." Retracting his head into the room, St. Mark slammed the door behind him.

Laura smoothed the annoyance out of her expression, waited thirty seconds and knocked again. "Mr. St. Mark? You really ought to let me in," she called. "You're not exactly in Mr. Hogarth's good graces, from what I can see. Why make things worse for yourself?"

There was a pause. Then the door was jerked open as forcefully as it had been shut. St. Mark swept her an ironic bow as he stood back and motioned her inside.

So this was the kind of dressing room an internationally acclaimed tragedian rated. Seating herself on the sofa that occupied one wall, Laura assessed it with a practiced eye. It wasn't as luxurious as she might've expected before the reality of Hambeth had set her straight, but it was a definite reflection on St. Mark's stature as an actor: fairly large, good furniture. Framed photos of St. Mark, in and out of character, jostled each other for wall space. All of them seemed to have been chosen for their emphasis on his undeniable good looks. Laura had to smother a grin as she privately acknowledged the parallels between him and another handsome man she happened to know.

From the depths of the recliner in which he'd arranged himself, St. Mark was subjecting her to a similar scrutiny, except in his case it was plain he didn't much approve of what he saw. He wasn't going to make it easy on her. But if her read on him was right, it wouldn't take very long to disarm him.

She said: "I can't tell you what an honor it is to have the chance to meet you and talk with you. I've admired your work for years."

This he appeared to accept as given. "You don't look like an actress," he said bluntly.

"I don't? Why not?"

"Too normal, for one thing. What's your background? Who'd you study with?"

"Dr. Bruce Sininger at Stanford University." Of all the elements of the cover story she and Remington had concocted, this one was closest to the truth. As a member of Stanford's undergraduate chorus, she'd participated from the sidelines of four annual musicals while Sininger directed the cast.

"What about after university?"

"Some commercial work. A soap opera walk-on. Trapeze artist with Cordaro's Fun Time Circus." Okay, "Chef Gaston" and _Rage to Live_ were a stretch, but she and Remington really had posed as high flyers three years ago and had the time of their lives.

"_Trapeze artist_?" He was incredulous. "That's it? No classical training at all?"

"I'm hoping my time here will fill in the gaps."

St. Mark grunted. "Fellow who was with you yesterday. Monkley. He an 'actor' "—she could almost see the quotes St. Mark verbally inserted around the word—"too?"

"My husband. Yes."

"Englishman?"

"Irish, actually."

"With the same depth of experience as you, I expect."

"As a matter of fact, he's from a theatrical family. He and his father have…performed…all over the world."

"I've never heard of him."

"Tiny troupe, small venues."

"I don't believe this." For a moment he sat with twitching lips. Then he threw back his head and guffawed. "Oh, Eddie, you've done it again, haven't you?"

Concealing another spasm of annoyance, Laura waited him out. Her first impression of him, the one she'd confided to Remington yesterday, was the right one: he was an arrogant jerk. He was also sure enough of his position to express his scorn for Hogarth openly without fearing he'd lose his job. Either that or his dislike for his director had reached some kind of tipping point where he could no longer suppress it. Mentally she moved him up a couple of notches on the suspect list.

At last he subsided. "Why I'm to be stuck to spoon-feeding a total novice, I'll never know," he said with a sigh. "But as long as you're here, you might as well learn something. At least you've come prepared."

"I jotted down a few questions I wanted to ask. If you don't mind..."

His expression as she pulled a pad of paper from the notebook was a combination of exaggerated patience and condescension that made her want to laugh. She said timidly: "I was wondering, first of all, if could tell me how you approach your preparation for a role…Specifically, how do you as a product of the twentieth century approach the sixteenth-century mindset Shakespeare wrote from? Of course we could argue that his characters are universal and thus accessible to actors and audiences in all times and places, but that's a little simplistic, wouldn't you agree? Beliefs that were taken for granted then—an all-wise providence, for instance, or the clear boundary between good and evil—they're not familiar nowadays. You might even call it an alien worldview. How do you adapt it to a modern-day frame of reference? Or do you ignore it where you can and work around it when you must?"

She slanted a swift upward glance at him. Sure enough, he was staring at her, clearly taken aback. Good. It was always fun to watch a balloon-like male ego deflate under her subtle needling. Since she didn't have much reason to practice on Remington these days, she kind of missed it. And she couldn't think of a more deserving target than St. Mark.

He was at a loss for a ready response, so she plowed on. "I'm especially interested in how that applies to tragically flawed characters you've played, like Othello and Richard the Third. And then there are the statements you've made in the past with regard to the acting styles of some of the greats—Olivier, Richardson, Gielgud—as compared to your own generation. You more or less dismissed them-"

"I didn't _dismiss_ them. I said it was time to leave old-fashioned mannerisms and bombast behind so raw emotion could dominate the stage."

"—and I wanted to know what the more naturalistic performances you prefer demand from you as an actor, as opposed to classic Gielgud, say."

There was a pause, expectant on her side, slightly abashed on his. "Those are some…interesting questions," he said at last.

"I might not look like an actress, but I'm serious about becoming one. And then there's what happened yesterday."

"What about it?"

"You've played Claudius three out of the last six seasons and you've been rehearsing him for over eight weeks. Now all of a sudden your director is changing your assignment in mid-stream. I could be wrong, but a downgrade to a supporting role? It has to cause some loss of focus. Even for a star like you."

There was a moment every undercover investigator prayed for, Laura thought, when you could sense you'd just about won a hostile suspect over. The way St. Mark was leaning forward slightly in the recliner told her that if she hadn't arrived yet, she'd come very close. At least he'd dropped the patronizing sneer and was giving her credit her for an atom of intelligence.

"Very perceptive of you," he said. "Are you speaking from experience?"

"Let's just say I know what it's like to be robbed of the spotlight."

"Robbed."

"That's how it looked to me. As I said, I could be wrong."

"No, no, it's the best way to describe it." Her skilful manipulation was paying off in spades; it had dawned on him that here was a potentially sympathetic listener. He jumped up and began to stride back and forth in front of her. "That part _is_ mine. I'm the only man in the company who can do it justice. Do you think Eddie Hogarth has the power to hold an audience that I have? It'll be ruined in his hands, the same way he's ruining this company."

"I did get the impression you don't see eye-to-eye with him."

He grunted again. "He hates me! It's no secret that he'll go to any lengths to upstage me, even if it means wrecking an entire season. That's what happens when you recruit an egomaniacal hack for executive director, instead of a genuine actor."

It was a scrap of information that might be important. Filing it away for later examination, she said, frowning, "It sounds like you're accusing him of deliberately undermining Hambeth for the sake of his personal agenda."

"I'm not telling you anything I haven't already said to his face. It's another reason why he hates me. I'm not afraid to call him on his crap. As to whether or not I've lost focus because of it-"

He cut himself off abruptly at a soft tap on the door. "Mark? It's me." The accompanying low-pitched voice belonged to a woman. "Let me in."

Damn it, just when they were getting somewhere! The frustration was so acute, Laura had to bite her tongue to keep from asking him to ignore the knock. But when the visitor proved to be Diana Bell, she was glad she hadn't. This was definitely what Remington would've called a fascinating development.

The actress had stopped short at the sight of Laura. "I didn't realize you had company," she said, eyes on St. Mark.

"You remember Miss Randall from yesterday? Edmund's asked me to take her under my wing for the time being."

"Of course." Bell's smile seemed a little forced. "I'm glad to meet you, Miss Randall. Diana Bell."

"Please, it's Terry. And the pleasure's all mine."

It was opening a whole new realm of speculation, the awkwardness with which St. Mark and Bell were behaving towards one another. "Judd's requesting a run-through of the final scene," said Bell. "I thought you'd want to sit in."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," St. Mark replied dryly. To Laura he added: "We'll have to postpone the rest of the lesson for another time. Tomorrow, let's say?"

"Oh, but couldn't I tag along? This is exactly the kind of experience I hoped I'd have at Hambeth. I promise you won't even know I'm there."

A glance Laura couldn't decipher passed between St. Mark and Bell. "It couldn't hurt, could it?" Bell asked.

The air of constraint between St. Mark and Bell lasted the entire way to the theater. Trailing behind them by a few steps, Laura noted how careful they were to avoid touching, even talking, with one another. At the door they separated quickly, Bell towards the stage, St. Mark to a seat near the front.

They might as well have saved themselves the trouble. Laura's suspicions were already aroused. Next on the agenda: discovering if Diana Bell was cheating on her husband.

And whether she warranted a spot on the Steeles' list of suspects.

* * *

"What the hell do you want?" demanded Judd Owen.

Anticipating his reaction, Remington had insinuated his foot in the space between the dressing room door and the jamb so as to pre-empt Owen from shutting it on him. "Apprentice training session," he said. "Mr. Hogarth told me you'd been forewarned." And without turning a hair, he slipped smoothly past Owen.

Apparently the actor wasn't a man of fast reflexes; Remington was already sitting down when Owen opened his mouth to protest. "Hey! This is _my_ dressing room!"

"And a fine one it is, too," Remington replied.

Actually, it wasn't. In fact it was rather a mess, clothes strewn about, the evidence of takeout lunches and an ungovernable diet Pepsi habit overflowing the rubbish bin-on one side of the room, that was. The other was noticeably neater; from the snapshots affixed to the makeup mirror, it was easy to deduce it belonged to Hambeth's newest golden boy, Cledwyn Rhys. On Owens' dressing table, by contrast, stood a framed photo of Lizbeth Lyons.

Owen and Rhys, roommates. And possible rivals for the affections of the fair Miss Lyons. Wait til Laura heard that.

Surrendering the fight, Owen had sprawled in the nearest chair and was reaching for a cigarette. "You're wasting your time, man. I'm due at rehearsal in twenty minutes. Besides, I don't give acting lessons."

"It appears Mr. Hogarth doesn't agree."

"Yeah? Well, I've got a newsflash for him: I have my own career to think about. So do us both a favor and naff off, as you Brits like to say."

"I'm not a Brit, as it happens, though I'm familiar with the sentiment. Your reluctance to undertake the training session. It wouldn't have something to do with yesterday's rehearsal, would it?"

"I don't owe you an explanation, whoever you are."

"Jim Monkley. I wasn't asking for one. But I think I can be of service to you."

Owen took a long drag of his cigarette. "Right."

"You've only a week until dress rehearsal. And Laertes is a part you haven't played before, unless I miss my guess."

"So?"

"The way I see it, we're each in a position to give the other something he needs. You, a chance for intensive rehearsal in preparation for next Wednesday…me, the privilege of understudying one of the most gifted young actors in the country, if not the world. Isn't that what the critics say about you?"

Perhaps Remington had laid it on a trifle too thick; Owen scowled even more darkly. "No one around here gives a shit what the critics say. Weren't you listening yesterday? I've been replaced as Hamlet. _Replaced_. My career's ruined."

"But I thought this season was to be your busiest ever, according to the advance publicity. _Hamlet_, _The Two Gentlemen of Verona_, _The Tempest_, _The Merchant of_ _Venice_-"

"Christ, you don't get it, do you?" By now Owen was practically shouting. "Hamlet's the showcase! And _I'm_ supposed to be the leading man. I've been the leading man for two years! But thanks to that stupid Taff, I'm out on my ass, no warning, no discussion-!" He directed an involuntary glance at the photo of Lizbeth Lyons as he seized an ashtray. "It's not fair!"

He seemed to run out of steam then and lapsed into moody silence, puffing away. But that glance at Lyons' photograph had told Remington much that he needed to know. So had "Taff", a derogatory term for a Welshman he'd never before heard outside of England. Could it be that Owens and Lyons, playing opposite one another as Romeo and Juliet and Claudio and Hero had followed their alter egos' lead and become personally involved? It wouldn't be unusual if they had. And had Lyons now set her sights on Cledwyn Rhys, whose rising star had eclipsed that of Owens, at least temporarily? Could Owens have in turn engineered the accidents out of retaliation against Rhys, or in an ill-conceived effort to win Lyons back?

It was a plausible scenario. And Owens' perceived demotion might be fuel added to his fire. Judging by his reaction just now, his was the kind of volatile personality that might choose such a course.

"Why do you stay on?" he asked Owens abruptly.

"What?"

"You're angry, you're frustrated, you feel your career's been threatened. I'd think a man in your position would test the waters elsewhere. Mr. Hogarth's given you a perfect out, if you've a mind to take it. Yet you're still here."

After a moment's puzzlement, Owen gave a cynical bark of laughter. "Oh. You mean that bullshit about anyone who's unhappy with the way Hogarth runs Hambeth is free to go. You don't happen to have a spare twenty grand you could loan me, do you?"

"I'm not sure I follow you."

"That's how much it'll cost me to break my contract." At Remington's expression, he laughed again. "The old man was grandstanding! You've never signed a contract with an early termination clause, have you?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"It's how Hambeth protects itself against an actor taking a better offer in the middle of the season. Yeah, you can leave it you want, as long as you can pay for it. We're all bound the same way, except maybe St. Mark and Wycliffe."

"But I thought Hogarth said Oliver Arundel was released by mutual agreement."

"Arundel's still collecting residuals from the teleplays he did for the BBC in the seventies. He could afford to leave. I can't."

It was a juicy morsel to sink one's teeth into; it also evoked a host of new questions. But before Remington could frame the first one, Owen was rising to his feet. "Time's up, Monkley. I've got a swordfight to practice."

His failure to extend an invitation was probably no accident. Undeterred, Remington smiled as if he had. "Splendid! Precisely the demonstration I'd have suggested. As they say in the parlance, lead on, Macduff."

In the theater Remington spotted Laura in a seat midway back and crossed the aisle to join her. "Productive morning?" he asked.

Leaning towards him, she kept her voice low, though they were separated from the subject of her remarks by ten rows. "St. Mark thinks the trustees made a huge mistake in hiring Hogarth to be executive director. They should've chosen a genuine actor instead."

"Meaning himself, I presume. Was he in the running for the job at some point?"

"Mildred will have to find out. According to St. Mark, Hogarth changed roles with him because he hates him and has made it his mission in life to upstage him. Oh, and guess who dropped by while I was there? Mrs. Hogarth."

"Business? Personal?"

"She calls him Mark, and they were working awfully hard to convince me they're indifferent to each other. What does that tell you?"

"There's an illicit romance afoot. Which goes a long way towards explaining that little interchange at yesterday's rehearsal. And supplies her and St. Mark with a motive for sabotage."

"Bingo. How about you? Any luck with Judd Owen?"

"There's a similar triangle among the youthful set, only in this case it's Owen who's out in the cold. I'm guessing he and the demure Miss Lyons were an item for a while, but she's diverted her affections to her new leading man."

"Cledwyn Rhys."

"He shared another interesting bit of information, Owen did. Apparently it isn't so easy to quit Hambeth as Hogarth intimated. Everyone but the veterans have a clause in their contracts that states they'll owe a hefty penalty if they try to break it early."

Laura looked thoughtful. "You could almost call it a modern-day version of indentured servitude."

"Causing the whole enterprise to fail might seem like the only escape to someone who's desperate to leave. We're not just talking about Owen, either." Remington nodded towards Morwenna Pascoe, who had just entered stage right with Andy Treacher. "The Player Queen and Guildenstern in place of Ophelia? Insulting doesn't begin to describe it."

So involved were the Steeles in their conversation, they hadn't paid much attention to what the actors were up to, and it startled them when Owen suddenly hailed Remington. "Hey! Monkley! We could use you up here."

The Steeles communicated their mutual surprise in the glance they exchanged. "The stage's irresistible call?" suggested Laura.

"Perhaps my innate talent is so conspicuous they couldn't help but notice it."

As soon as Remington was close enough, Owen tossed him a rapier whose tip was capped for safety. "Can you handle one of these?"

"Well enough to get by."

"You're standing in for Rhys until he shows up. Here's what you have to do." Rapidly Owen outlined the fight scene's choreography. "Don't worry about Hamlet's lines. Paige'll run them for me."

Remington gazed around at the other cast members, Diana Bell as Gertrude, Denis Paige as Orsric, Lachlan Ford as Horatio, Andy Treacher, Morwenna Pascoe, a handful of extras, and then back at Owen. "I'd like to have a go myself, if you don't mind."

"Whatever works for you." Shrugging, Owen caught up his own rapier and nodded at Treacher. "When you're ready."

Evidently Treacher was substituting for Hogarth; he gestured towards Remington as if offering a toast and spoke as Claudius: " 'Come, begin, and you the judges bear a wary eye'."

That was Remington's cue. Fortunately he'd studied the scene and knew what Hamlet's reply was supposed to be. " 'Come on, sir'." And he executed a smooth opening thrust, exactly as Owen had instructed him to do.

In character as Laertes, Owen parried it, flagrantly taunting him. " 'Come, my lord'."

From her vantage point in the audience, Laura was watching the action with increasing alarm. Had her husband in an excess of macho disregard for his safety accepted a challenge he couldn't meet? Vaguely she recalled him referring once upon a time to fencing lessons—they were an alibi he'd produced when Descoines framed him for murder, if memory served—but he hadn't mentioned them in years, and she could attest with authority that he hadn't practiced the sport since they were married. Besides, what about his ankle? It was bothering him yesterday; there was no way it had healed overnight. She held her breath, sure it was about to buckle under him at any moment.

It didn't, thank God. By and by, in spite of her anxiety, she was able to relish the incredible picture he made: all lean, sculpted lines, his posture aristocratic, his movements confident and powerful. He was as comfortable with the rapier as if he'd been wielding it from birth. Next to him Judd Owen looked thick-bodied and almost graceless.

Not only that, Remington had memorized the dialogue and was delivering it with a naturalness she couldn't have predicted. " 'I'll play this bout first; set it by awhile'," he was saying, waving Bell away. Another thrust at Owen, touching him on his right bicep. " 'Come, another hit. What say you?' "

Owen clapped his left hand to the spot. " 'A touch, a touch, I do confess'."

"My word, but he looks like his grandfather!"

The exclamation came from Laura's right. She turned. Wycliffe had sat down so quietly, she hadn't realized he was there. "Does he really?" she asked, smiling.

"Absolutely. Doesn't sound like him, I hate to say."

"But we've been told Lloyd Chalmers had a distinctive tenor voice. So does Rem—my husband. I guess we just assumed…"

"But John has an accent. Even when he's trying, as he is now, he can't quite suppress it." Closing his eyes, cocking his head, Wycliffe concentrated. "Irish?"

Laura nodded.

"Whereas Lloyd spoke the most perfect King's English." A pause. " 'Well, I will make her stand by her husband. That is the only thing for her to do. That is the only thing for any woman to do. It is the growth of moral sense in women that makes marriage such a hopeless, one-sided institution'. Lord Goring in _An Ideal Husband_."

He'd given the entire quote in a voice that was eerily like Remington's in timbre and tone, though lacking the undercurrent of laughter that lurked in all but Remington's angriest moments. At first she might've mistaken it for Remington when he first arrived in America, employing a posh English drawl to hide his origins for reasons known only to him.

And yet…it wasn't. She couldn't have explained the difference, but she was convinced it was there. Through the medium of Wycliffe's talent for mimicry, she was hearing Lloyd Chalmers, dead and buried more than forty years.

The thought engendered a shiver. "It's…spooky, that you can do that," she told Wycliffe.

"Believe me, I don't very often. I won't do it in front of John if you think it would upset him."

"Truthfully? I think he'd thank you for it."

Disorder had broken out onstage while they were talking. Its source was Cledwyn Rhys, who'd chosen that moment to stroll in, bringing rehearsal to a halt.

"Big of you to grace us with your presence, Taff," said Owen.

"For the last time, Owen, stop calling me 'Taff'." Rhys held out a hand for the rapier Remington was using. "Mine, I believe."

There wasn't a trace of pique in Remington's face at being dismissed so discourteously; he simply turned the weapon over and sprang lightly from the stage. But Laura thought she detected a complimentary murmur from the cast following in his wake. Wonder of wonders: the hard-headed denizens of Hambeth were impressed with his performance.

They weren't the only ones. "How come you never told me you were so good at that?" she demanded as he regained his seat.

Consciousness that he'd acquitted himself well showed in his twinkling eyes and quirking lips. "What's marriage without a little mystery, Laura? Anyway, I told you I'd been practicing."

"I thought you meant Hamlet's lines."

"Well done, John," Wycliffe put in. "Your grandfather would've been proud of you just now."

It was almost painful to witness the transformation Wycliffe's praise wrought in Remington's expression. His throat worked; the teasing sparkle softened, and so did his smile, until it was as tentative and bashful as a boy's. "He would?" he breathed.

"Truly. I see a lot of him in you."

Where the moment might've led them, who could tell? It never got a chance to unfold. From the stage, where the final scene of Hamlet had recommenced, came a yelp of pain, and an attendant babel of voices. Suddenly it seemed there were twice as many people gathered than there had been a second before. But maybe that was because they were all pushing into a circle around someone prone on the floor.

The Steeles leapt to their feet and together rushed to the rescue.

On the positive side, Cledwyn Rhys was fully conscious, sitting up and able to talk. "You bastard," he was hissing at Judd Owen. "You bastard."

On the negative side, Laura determined that the rapier wound in Rhys' left arm, though not serious, was deeper than just a scratch.

"It wasn't on purpose, I swear to God," Owen insisted over and over to anyone who would listen. "The safety cap is broken! Look! It's cracked right open!"

Hogarth's arrival was the second worst thing that could have happened.

The very worst was St. Mark, shouting at his adversary above the uproar: "There you are, Eddie! How much more proof do you need? Hambeth is cursed, and it's all your fault!"

* * *

Much later, the chaos that surrounded Rhys' injury having died out, his own careful preparations completed, Remington was waiting for Laura to come to bed.

Calming Hogarth had required a big chunk of time and even more finesse. Quite unreasonably, he'd blamed the Steeles for what he saw as a breakdown in security and had given them a tongue-lashing along the lines of the one they'd observed in the rehearsal hall on their arrival at Hambeth. Remington and Laura had taken it in turns to placate him-good cop, better cop, was the name of the game—until Laura had lost her temper and in that cool but devastating way of hers reminded Hogarth they'd only been twenty-hours on the job. Furthermore, he wouldn't have known about the pick marks in the props room if Mr. Steele hadn't alerted him, and what had he, Hogarth, done to secure the weapons since then?

That had removed some of the wind from Hogarth's sails. Seizing the advantage, Laura had added, "Like it or not, Max Yarborough's as much a suspect as anyone in the company. From here on out we're treating him like one. If you have objections, please state them now.'

Hogarth had disavowed any. Laura had nodded her satisfaction. "We'll get to the bottom of this, but only if our investigation isn't hampered by evasions and half-truths. You'll have to be up front with us…in everything."

It was a natural segue into a discussion of St. Mark's reference to the Hambeth curse. But Laura didn't follow through. Such an omission by anyone else would've disconcerted Remington; his wife, he could be certain, had done it deliberately. It really was a pleasure, watching her weave a plan of action.

He admired it all the more because he was engaged in some covert planning of his own. To his mind there was no reason to delay the beginning of his campaign to persuade her into wanting a baby as much as he did. Tonight was just a good a time to launch it as any. If only the American airwaves would co-operate and furnish the beachhead he needed.

As it happened, Providence (he steadfastly refused to entrust this critical an enterprise to the hands of luck) had smiled on him: channel thirteen was showing _Penny Serenade _at nine o'clock. Cary Grant, Irene Dunne, Columbia, 1941. A handsome young couple facing adversity after adversity is able to save their marriage through their common desire to raise a child.

Perfect.

The rest of his strategy was simple to orchestrate. Sneak into the shower before she could commandeer it; establish himself in bed as soon as she was safely out of the way in the bathroom. As an added incentive to extended snuggling in front of the television he undid his pajama jacket and left it open. Laura, he'd discovered, had a special weakness for that point of skin-to-skin contact.

Five minutes to nine found him lying fraught with anticipation—and indulging in dreams of ready victory. After all, Laura was a warm-hearted girl beneath that analytical façade. It was one of the fascinating contrasts he loved about her. A subtle appeal to her emotions would possibly be enough to tip the scales in his favor. In less than two hours they could be…how should he put it? Ah yes: In the delightful throes of the process of becoming parents. By tomorrow morning they might very well have conceived a baby!

The movie had begun by the time she joined him, dewy and fresh despite the long hours on assignment and redolent of flowers. An insubordinate idea popped into his head: perhaps the more direct route to success would be to progress immediately to the physical, overwhelming her with lust, leaving her emotions to look after themselves? Here she was, so close to hand, and looking very lovely, indeed…

Hastily he squashed it. It smacked too much of subterfuge, of trickery. Laura would see through it in an instant.

He suffered a second or two of anxiety when it seemed she was about to bring her book to bed. But then she laid it aside and slipped into his embrace. Good thing she was nestling her head on his shoulder; it kept her from spotting the triumphant grin that broke out on his lips before he could check it.

"What are we watching, Mr. Steele?" she asked.

He explained. It had to be confessed that he edited the synopsis for her benefit, neglecting to mention the central role that babies played. Really it wasn't an out-and-out lie. Anyway he was offering it in the service of the greater good. And he was careful to stress how big a favorite of his the film was, how long it had been since he'd seen it, and how much he'd been looking forward to it.

A quarter of an hour in, it was going as well as he could've hoped. The only snag was the temptation presented by her nearness and the intoxicating scent of her. But he could handle it, thanks to the iron control he manfully exerted over his body: staunch, impervious, immovable.

Then Laura said: "I hate to say it, but this is kind of dumb."

This was an eventuality he hadn't foreseen. He looked down at her, nonplussed.

"Dumb?" he echoed.

"A little heavy on the melodrama, too."

"Melodrama?"

"You know. Soap opera."

"Soap opera? Laura, this is Grant at his finest, demonstrating his versatility, his almost uncanny ability to take on a personality completely opposite of his own. And look at his range, conveying every color of the emotional spectrum, from the pinnacle of joy to abject despair-"

"Right. Not my cup of tea. Sorry." She stretched up and kissed him on the cheek. "Guess I'll just turn in."

Crestfallen, he couldn't summon a single word that could stop her from curling on her side away from him. All he could think was: his plan! His clever, infallible plan, the first step towards fatherhood-in ruins!

But still there might be a way to salvage it—"We can have it off, then, if you like," he said hopefully, addressing her averted profile.

"That's okay. I know how much you love it. 'Night, sweetheart."

'Sweetheart'? His suspicions aroused, he shot her another, sharper glance. Laura was a woman seldom given to endearments; he could count on the fingers of one hand the occasions she'd employed an alternate to an affectionate "Mr. Steele" when she was happy with him. And wasn't there the tiniest trace of sarcasm in her tone?

Was she on to him?

If she was, he couldn't tell by her face. It was placid, her lashes fanned over her cheek—very sweet in its repose, if the truth be known. And though he watched for a few minutes more, the only change that came over her was the slowing and deepening of her breathing.

At last there was nothing for it but to move his attention back to the screen. Glumly he punched his pillow down, lay back with his arms behind his head, and steeled himself for one hundred and ten minutes of sheer boredom.

Because the fact of the matter was this:

In his opinion, _Penny Serenade_ was one of the silliest pictures Grant had ever made.

TO BE CONTINUED


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Sunday morning found the Steeles heading back to Los Angeles to take advantage of the two-day break Hogarth allowed his company each week. It would give them just enough time to catch up at the agency and then attend a Monday evening press club event where Remington was scheduled to present an award. They would return to Solvang early Tuesday.

Also on Monday's agenda was a visit with Oliver Arundel, whose West Hollywood address was in their possession at last. Fed up with Hogarth's inexplicable stonewalling, the Steeles had entrusted the task to Mildred and her computer. She'd come up aces within a matter of hours. And she'd half-jokingly hinted at an appropriate reward. "I'll interview him for you, boss," she'd said in a phone conversation with Laura. "Oliver Arundel! In person! It'll be like dying and going to heaven."

"I take it you're a fan of his," Laura had replied, amused.

"You bet I am. Never missed an episode of _The Small House at Allington_ and _Dr. Thorne_ on Masterpiece Theater. If you ask me, he's a million times better-looking than Jeremy Irons and Anthony Andrews put together. Aw, come on! What do you say?"

Regretfully Laura had had to refuse her. Remington for his part had grinned as she related Mildred's side of the exchange to him. "It just goes to prove what I've always suspected. She's a dyed-in-the-wool PBS-watcher, our Mildred."

In terms of the investigation, Arundel's address was the sole area in which the Steeles had made any progress. The days following Rhys' injury had brought them no nearer to figuring out who might have tampered with the safety cap on Owens' rapier—or even if it was a deliberate act at all. From the outset they'd agreed that it couldn't have been an attempt to warn them off the case by someone who'd figured out they were detectives. Reason number one: Owen's invitation to Remington to rehearse with him had been entirely spontaneous and unexpected. Reason number two: the scene he and Remington had performed called toward the end for Laertes to switch weapons with Hamlet before striking the fatal blow. That meant Owen would've been the wounded party if the swordfight had played out as it should have.

It was a small but telling detail. And it did a lot to clear Owen of the designation of prime suspect he would've otherwise deserved. That he hated his rival and wished him out of the way was a settled fact. Whether he'd actually taken steps to maim or even kill him was far from a foregone conclusion.

Several hours spent with Max Yarborough convinced Remington that there was no direct evidence to implicate the props manager, either. Yarborough appeared exactly as Hogarth described him: trustworthy. He had procedures in place for checking weapons in and out in addition to a regular maintenance schedule. Safety caps on other fencing weapons—epées and sabers—were uniformly in good repair. Also, and maybe most significantly, Yarborough seemed content with his job. If he shared the actors' dislike of Hambeth's executive director, he didn't reveal any sign of it to Remington.

So where did that leave the Steeles? More or less back to their starting point, albeit with a new angle to explore. What had St. Mark meant when he castigated Hogarth about Hambeth's "curse"?

It wasn't as easy to coax the answer out of St. Mark as Laura would've thought, considering the effort she'd already invested in establishing rapport with him. The invitation he'd extended for a make-up apprentice session provided an excellent pretext for pumping him for information. But he'd blocked her initial attempt to channel the conversation towards Rhys' injury with a frown and an impatient, "We're here to work, not gossip. Let's get started."

Beneath a show of attention to the material he'd prepared, she bided her time. At length the discussion had turned toward flawed heroes he'd played over the years. Among them he listed the "murderous Scottish king". It was exactly the phrasing a man who took the old curse seriously would use to avoid saying Macbeth's name aloud.

She'd asked him point blank if that was the case. Not only did he acknowledge it, he seemed to think it was the rational point of view. " 'There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy'," he'd quoted.

"But you don't really believe actors have died because of it."

"Things that can't be explained away tend to happen when that name's bandied carelessly about. I know. I've lived through it."

"Was that in other theaters, or here at Hambeth?"

"Both."

"You mean the accidents? Mr. Hogarth told Jim and me about them when we first arrived. He said nobody was hurt."

The anger that sparked in St. Mark's dark eyes had taken her by surprise. "Accidents? He called them _accidents_?"

"Why, is there something wrong with that?"

"You were there yesterday! You saw what almost happened to Rhys! It was no _accident_." His voice had risen in volume; he'd brought his fist down so suddenly on the arm of his chair that she jumped. "What'll it take to get it through his head that this is a matter of life and death? _I'll_ tell you what: one of us actually dying. And it'll come to that! Mark my words, Edmund Hogarth is going to rue the day he took the curse so lightly!"

Later, discussing the incident with Remington, Laura was a little disgusted with herself for unwittingly giving control over the interview so completely to St. Mark—and because she harbored a nagging suspicion that he'd deliberately manipulated her with his theatrics. "He might've been genuinely angry. But he could've been showboating to distract me from asking any more questions. I don't know…Maybe I'm losing my touch. Or I'm just not as good at reading people as I like to think.

"Nonsense," Remington had replied. "I was once as expert a dissembler as he is. Possibly better, because I lived my roles twenty-four hours a day. Yet look how clearly you've seen through me."

"Have I?"

"So much it's downright unnerving at times."

"I must admit, it didn't hit me until today, exactly what we're up against. How do we pry the truth out of people who make their living by concealing who they are?"

"The same way we always do, with logic and persistence. Your specialties, my love. Which explanation makes more sense? St. Mark accusing Hogarth to deflect attention from himself? Or blustering because to his mind he has a legitimate grievance?"

She'd mulled that over for a moment or two. "A legitimate grievance. It certainly tracks with the attitude Hogarth gave me about the curse the day we got here."

"I assume that's the reason you haven't taken him to task over St. Mark's outburst yesterday."

"I keep remembering Sonya Steinmetz, and how we practically telegraphed our every move to her in advance. I don't want to make the same mistake with Hogarth. It's bad enough he'll have to know who we want to question next. He'll probably have a fit."

There Laura's worries turned out to be groundless: Hogarth had offered no argument when she requested time with Diana Bell for herself and Lizbeth Lyons for Remington. But Remington had. "Don't do this to me, Laura, please," he'd wheedled. "I'll promise anything you like. Unlimited foot rubs for a month? I'll take the rubbish out without being asked from now on, eh? Or how about this? Assign me all the legwork on our next case. Only don't make me closet myself alone with that woman."

"What's the matter, Mr. Steele? I was under the impression that charming unsuspecting females out of their secrets was _your_ specialty."

"She's a barracuda, and I'll be the tasty minnow she's eying for a snack, that's why. I'd think for the sake of our marriage you'd prefer I kept my distance."

Laura had laughed--a contented wife, secure in her husband's love. The sound had warmed him even in the midst of his protests. "I'm pretty sure our marriage will survive," she'd said. "Come on. You know she'd never open up to me. Too busy sizing up the competition. It has to be you." And she'd kissed him.

In the end he'd resigned himself to the inevitable and done his duty, which meant half an afternoon spent with Lyons in her dressing room. Flirtation was too benign a word to describe what went on behind her closed door. The so-called ingénue had tried out a succession of skimpily clad, provocative poses, laced with innuendo, on him. When that failed to do the trick, she'd out-and-out propositioned him and then moved in for the kill. He'd counted himself lucky to escape with his modesty intact.

It was about the only thing he came away with. As a source of information she was worse than useless. Not that she evaded his questions; they went entirely over her head. And he wasn't being all that subtle! How she might've gained the upper hand over smart, hard-working Morwenna Pascoe in Hambeth's hierarchy, Remington could only guess. Sexual favors had no doubt figured heavily in her rise. As for his opinion of the two men mired with her in the lovers' triangle, it had undergone an abrupt about-face. Rhys was the poor bugger to be pitied, not Owen.

Laura's visit with Diana Bell had yielded more fruit. Part of it was because Laura had unintentionally sent her stock with Bell soaring by asking about the photos that occupied pride of place on every table and shelf. "Our daughter, Kitty, and our grandson, Robin," Bell had told her, smiling.

"Beautiful girl. And the baby's adorable. I would never have guessed you're a grandmother."

"Aren't you sweet. I have to admit, some days I feel old enough to be his great-grandmother."

"Is Kitty an actor, too?"

"Heavens, no. A piano teacher, until Robin came along. Now she's his mum and hostess for William--our son-in-law. He's become quite indispensable in The City, and they entertain often."

The undertone of wistfulness in Bell's voice was plain. "You must miss them," said Laura.

"Dreadfully. It seems like ages since we saw them last." Offering Laura a seat, Bell had added, "I thought we might start with some readings, and then play a scene together. Would that suit you?"

It had suited Laura just fine, especially as a vehicle for observing Bell up close. The longer she and Bell worked, the more obvious was the contrast between this unassuming woman and St. Mark's mercurial brilliance. It was clearly a match of opposites. What did they see in each other? Laura wondered. Since Remington came along she'd learned just how powerfully love could defy the neat categories in which people sought to confine it; she was hesitant to subject Bell's and St. Mark's relationship to an application of logic her own marriage probably couldn't stand up against. Still, something about it didn't fit.

It wasn't until they'd run twice through the majority of Gertrude's scenes that Bell suggested they take a break. "Nicely done," she said. "You show definite promise. You and your husband both."

The praise struck Laura as sincere. "Thank you. We're trying."

"It hasn't been easy for you, has it? The arguments your first day, what happened with Cledwyn. Are you sorry you came?"

"No, not at all. Just a little mystified by the talk that Hambeth's cursed."

"Of course. St. Mark said that the other day, didn't he." Though her voice was steady as she pronounced the name, Bell's expression was troubled.

"He told me he believes it's true."

"And you're wondering if the rest of us feel as he does?"

"Frankly, yes. I'm also wondering if Jim and I should be worried for our safety. Mr. St. Mark hinted that Rhys's injury wasn't an accident."

Bell had opened her mouth, on the verge of speaking; then all at once she shut it again. Laura had waited. "I don't think you and your husband are in any danger," Bell had finally said.

Cryptic remark or evasion? Whichever, it obviously wasn't what she'd intended to communicate. And wasn't there a peculiar emphasis on the phrase 'you and your husband'? But before Laura could confirm the impression, Bell had turned her attention back to Gertrude, and the moment was lost.

By the time they finished it was close to five o'clock. Bell had wound up the afternoon with a disconcerting invitation. "Perhaps I should talk to Edmund about arranging for you to understudy Gertrude with me. Would you be interested?"

"Oh--" For an instant Laura felt her cover slip; it was hard to simulate excitement as Terry Randall, struggling actress, while Laura Steele was trying to fend off a wave of panic. With any luck Bell would mistake her sudden babbling for the former. "But wouldn't that mean I'd be your stand-in if you couldn't go on stage? I'm not ready for that."

Bell had smiled her gentle smile again. "You needn't worry. In thirty years of acting I haven't missed a single performance. And it would be a fantastic addition to your resume. Talk it over with your husband and let me know."

"Excellent," was Remington's opinion of the proposal. "What better opportunity to unravel the convoluted twists of her relationships than from a front-row seat? And here it is, fallen in our laps." There was a pause while he measured Laura with a gaze that was simultaneously affectionate and piercing. "Why don't you look convinced?"

"I don't know. Premature stage fright? There's a real possibility I could end up subbing for her. Maybe it's a million to one chance, but even that's a little close for comfort."

"I seriously doubt it would come to that."

"Then let's just say one budding thespian in the family is more than enough."

They'd volleyed it back and forth intermittently for an entire evening, but in the end Remington had prevailed. With Hogarth's permission secured—again with astonishing ease—Laura had accepted the offer. She would begin exclusive studies with Bell the following week.

In the meantime, there was the weekend hiatus to look forward to. And, on Remington's side, another phase of his baby crusade to carry out.

He'd schooled himself to tread with caution after his most recent setback, as well as mix up his methods. It had always been a matter of pride to him, his endless ingenuity, never repeating a tactic he'd previously deployed in their battle of the sexes, and he didn't intend to change now. Not to mention that it was the only path to success with a wife as wide-awake as Laura. That was the trouble with being married to a trained investigator: he could no more put anything over on her in their personal life than the bad guys who populated their professional life could.

So though he hadn't altogether jettisoned the strategy of subliminally suggesting parenthood through appropriate movies, he didn't attempt another frontal assault. Instead he incorporated them with a menu of more adult fare. _Key Largo_ he followed with _Chitty Chitty Bang Bang_, _The Face of Fu Manchu_ with _Cheaper by the Dozen, Return of the Thin Man _with _Life with Father_. This last was a touch of genius, he congratulated himself. His admiration for William Powell provided the perfect pretext, allaying her suspicions before they'd had a chance to take root.

In the interval he'd had another brainstorm, an especially brilliant one whose reveal he postponed until he'd gotten them under way on Sunday. Even then he waited until he'd put fifty miles between them and Solvang to break the silence. "Laura…I've been thinking."

Without laying her book aside—ghost stories again, he saw—she made an inquiring little noise in her throat.

"When the case is over and we're home for good, we ought to have Laurie Beth to stay for a weekend. Not right away. Perhaps in a month or two."

Out of the corner of his eye he noted that she'd raised her head. "What brought this on?"

"Nothing, but it's occurred to me that we don't see enough of her. And she's growing up so fast. One of these days we'll turn around and find she's already eighteen, and then where will we be?"

"Congratulating ourselves it's Donald and Frances and not us who are paying for college and her wedding, most likely," Laura said wryly. "Listen, I don't have a problem with it, as long as you explain something first."

Since circumstances were less than ideal for turning to face her, he did his best to convey his eagerness for her opinion through his body language.

"How do you propose we keep a seven-year old occupied for forty-eight hours?" she said.

It was a fair question. Forget the two days: how did one entertain a little girl for _one_ consecutive hour? He realized uneasily that he hadn't a clue beyond piggyback rides and pineapple-topped pizza. Perhaps the experience of living with a child, even on the short-term basis he'd proposed, was more complicated than he imagined.

Then from the foggy recesses of memory emerged the scrap of a conversation they'd once had about Laura's childhood. "Mystery Date?" he asked.

Nice try, but no cigar, was the message he read in her brown eyes.

"Barbie weddings?"

"To pull off a decent one we'd have to invite every little girl on the block."

The prospect put a significant dampener on his enthusiasm. Several miles rolled by before inspiration struck him a third time. "I have it. Disneyland."

"Old hat, Mr. Steele. Donald takes them to Disney World every Easter. That's in Florida," she added helpfully.

"I know that."

"And here's something else to chew on," she said. "We can't invite Laurie Beth and not the other two. It would start a civil war over there. Frances would never forgive us."

"I hadn't thought of it that way."

"We don't want to look like we're playing favorites. So let's ask ourselves. Are we up to dealing with the bigger kids? Frances tells me Danny's suddenly obsessed with softball—she spends half her time shuttling him to practices and games. And Mindy's driving her crazy banging away at the piano. She just started lessons and loves them."

He felt himself visibly deflating. Put in those terms, his clever scenario was beginning to lose its appeal. Looking after cuddly little Laurie Beth was one thing; a pre-pubescent boy agog for American sports and a nascent but untutored pianist was something else again. Much as he liked the children, he doubted that importing their chaos to Windsor Square would produce the effect he was shooting for. Quite the opposite: instead of coaxing out Laura's maternal side, it would probably shock it into a permanent state of hibernation.

Ah, well. Never let it be said he didn't know when to abandon an idea when it began to go sour on him. It wasn't as if it was the only string to his bow. Besides, that tidbit of information about his niece had captured his attention, so he turned the conversation in that direction. "Interesting, isn't it, how Mindy seems to have inherited the musical gene? It just goes to prove what I'm beginning to suspect."

"Which is?"

"The artistic bent runs in families."

"Frances doesn't play. Neither does Donald."

"But you do, eh? And your grandmother before you."

"That's pretty thin support for your theory."

"Perhaps, but there's also Wycliffe and Hogarth and the Chalmers. Can't forget them."

She nodded, conceding the point, as he warmed to his theme. "Look at Robbie and me. Look at Archie. Even Daniel! There no knowing how far he might've gone if he'd stuck with the stage. And I might've followed in his footsteps as well as my grandfather's."

"Actually, you _did_ follow in Daniel's footsteps."

"As a bona fide actor, I meant." He allowed himself a short reverie in which he and his father were as famous and acclaimed as the senior and junior Lon Chaneys or Douglas Fairbankses, or Kirk and Michael Douglas. It was so pleasing that he added, "It's not as if it's too late for me. Proper training, a bit of luck…stranger things have happened."

Laura was gazing at him in frank amazement. "You're kidding, right?"

"Not necessarily. Look how well they received me as Hamlet the other day."

"One scene hardly makes a career."

"Then there's what Mrs. Hogarth said about me. Full of promise, wasn't that the gist of it?"

"Would you get over yourself? She said the same thing about me."

"My example was bound to rub off after all these years, Laura."

She thumped him on the arm with her closed book.

"Makes you wonder what our child would be like, though, doesn't it?" he added slyly, watching her sideways again to gauge her reaction. "He or she might be anything. A poet! A painter! A Nobel-prize winning mathematician. It's all in the genes!"

Glance directed out the passenger window, she said nothing.

"What we wouldn't give to know, eh? Who he'll be like? His mother, accomplished pianist and graceful dancer? His great-grandfather Lloyd, an actor still beloved more than a quarter century after his death? Or his grandfather Daniel—not his bad deeds, of course, but his talent for--"

"With my luck, he'd take after his other grandfather. Dull accountant."

Dry though it was, her tone silenced him at once. All these months, while other emotional barriers were crumbling into dust, the topic of Laura's father had remained off-limits between them. If he remembered correctly, Jack Holt's name hadn't come up in three years except in the most cursory of references. Frances never spoke of him; nor had Abigail in the few times he'd seen her. He, Remington, knew almost as little about the man now as the day he'd entered Laura's life.

What he intended was to negotiate these potentially dangerous waters with care. So naturally what came out his mouth was the stupidest reply he could've made. "Ah…your father. Accountant, was he?"

At first he thought she was going to ignore him. Then she said: "Never mind. Forget it."

"But not dull, necessarily. A closet circus fanatic--"

"--Just forget I said anything--"

"--a frustrated lion-tamer or high-flyer on the inside, dying to get out. You have to have inherited your trapeze skills from somewhere--"

She whirled on him as far as she was able beneath the constraints of the seatbelt she was wearing. "Remington, I said forget it, all right?"

There was no mistaking the fire in her eyes. He dared push her no farther. "Yes, all right," he said.

One of the enduring graces of their relationship was that they seldom stayed angry with one another for long; harmony was restored well before they reached L.A. Arrived at Windsor Square, they decided to divide and conquer the household chores they couldn't avoid. While Laura tackled the laundry, he made a dash for the little boutique grocery he liked to patronize. There was more to the errand than a need to replenish the bare larder. The elements of culinary seduction--that was what he was after.

Evangelista's was definitely the right place to look. In triumph he bore home a beautiful brace of chateaubriand, tiny new potatoes, bibb, endive and watercress, and imported raspberries for homemade vinaigrette. The _pièce de résistance_—and his secret weapon—was a flourless chocolate mousse cake he'd pair with his own dessert specialty, _pots_ _de crème au chocolat_. He grinned as he unpacked his haul and set it out on the kitchen counter. Laura wouldn't know what hit her.

She certainly seemed oblivious when she popped in on her way out the door. She wore sweatpants and a tank top and her hair was pulled back into a high ponytail. "What time is dinner, Mr. Steele?" she asked, nicking a raspberry from the package.

"Half-past five or thereabouts. Off for a run?"

"After a few errands. I'll be back around five."

"Take your time, by all means," he addressed her retreating back, but it was in an undertone too low for her to hear. No sooner had she departed than he was rubbing his hands together and chuckling in glee. Providence was cooperating with him more willingly than he'd expected. Not only would her absence grant him time and solitude for cooking, but for creating the perfect ambience as well. He could hardly wait to begin.

Moving around the kitchen in a routine so ingrained it required a minimum of thought, he found his memory traveling back to the first time he'd tried to use his cooking skills to soften Laura's resistance. Six months into their professional relationship, that was. Or was it eight? At any rate, he'd long since fallen hard for the girl and knew it, knew also that his trusty bag of womanizer's tricks had failed in spectacular fashion to cut any ice with her. Apart from a few extremely tantalizing but all-too-brief kisses, he'd hardly touched her, not in what he'd have called any meaningful sense. That was why he'd fallen back in desperation on _canard au vin rouge_. Though it, too, had seemed to end in disaster—he'd had to halt proceedings in the middle to rush off on a case with Laura—he'd achieved results beyond his fondest expectations. Napping beside her in her bed at the sleep clinic; whispered confidences while on stakeout in the darkened testing lab. And, of course, the massage and kiss they'd shared in the kitchen at Rossmore after they'd closed the case. Oh, yes: being the first man ever to have cooked for her had netted him distinct…should he say…advantages?

As it would tonight. He could feel it!

He put a split of Möet in the icebox to chill. Then, with the chateaubriand slowly roasting in the oven, he ran upstairs for a shower and shave. The splash of Vetiver that closed his grooming ritual was another guarantor of romantic success, for it was Laura's favorite cologne of all. In a loose linen shirt and trousers, barefoot, he loped downstairs to put the finishing touches on the dining room.

He wasn't as quick as he'd have liked to be; Laura caught him before he could retreat to the kitchen. No doubt attracted by the soft jazz issuing from the turn table in the living room as she breezed in from the garage, she'd headed straight for its source. And there went the element of surprise.

But all was not lost. Her dimple told him so as she halted in the doorway to take it in, the centerpiece of roses, the table set with china and crystal and silver. "What's this?"

Her dark eyes held no trace of suspicion--he checked. "I thought it would be nice a change, after a week of take-out cartons on the fly," he said.

First she sniffed at the scents from the kitchen, and then she sniffed him, inhaling deeply. "Smells delicious."

The double meaning was clear. He gave it right back to her as he took her in his arms. "Just wait," he whispered, lips close to her ear, "til you've tasted it, my love…"

Her response to his kiss would easily have persuaded him to put off dinner indefinitely, but Laura had other ideas. "I need a shower, Mr. Steele."

"Who says? I rather like you like this."

"Hot and sweaty?"

"Cheeks flushed, heart pounding, pulse racing…"

"You'll get your chance, big fella." Grasping his collar in both hands, she tugged him down for another kiss. "Don't start without me."

"Wouldn't dream of it." And reluctantly he released her.

By the time she returned, the salad course was on the table and he was pouring two glasses of an excellent Côtes du Rhône. But he put the wine bottle down, the better to watch her approach in the fetching little ensemble she was wearing: flowing silky pants, a matching camisole. Long gone were the days of white cotton granny nighties, and not a moment too soon, as far as he was concerned.

"My, my, my," he breathed. "You do scrub up nicely, Mrs. Steele."

Other women he'd known, women from his past, might've strutted or twirled and preened for more of his attention. Not Laura. She merely answered his smile with her own and let him look. Back in the beginning that quiet self-possession of hers had intrigued him. Then, as months of fruitless pursuit lengthened into years with no end in sight, it had frustrated the hell out of him. Now it struck him as the hallmark of true beauty.

Smitten, that's what he was. Hopelessly, irretrievably smitten.

"To tonight," he toasted her once they were seated.

"Tonight," she agreed, touching her glass to his. "And us."

He couldn't have asked for a more auspicious start to the evening.

The scintillating freshness of the salad greens juxtaposed with the sharp-sweet vinaigrette had her exclaiming with delight.

The beef was succulent and pink on the inside, charred on the outside, just the way she liked it.

But it was when he brought in the mousse cake and the _pots de crème_ that he knew the victory was sealed. "You're spoiling me," she sighed.

"That's the general idea."

He thought he'd had them already, the full range of sensual experiences a man could possibly enjoy. After all, he'd considered himself something of a connoisseur in the old days. But none of them compared to holding his wife on his lap while she fed him alternately with cake and her kisses, or to slowly licking chocolate custard from her fingers.

As for the growing droop of her eyelids and the frequency of the yawns she stifled behind her hand, well, he missed those signs entirely.

At length they moved with one accord to the living room and into one another's embrace. It wasn't really dancing at all, what they were doing. More of an excuse to mold their bodies together while they swayed in place. But it was also a reminder if he ever needed one of how deeply she could stir him with little more than a brush of her lips, the press of her cheek against his chest, the heavy, silken fall of her hair under his hand.

The music faded out; the record stopped. He'd have replaced it with another, but Laura hugged him closer and tilted her face up to his. Her smile was tender and secret, the one she reserved for moments such as this.

"Take me to bed, Remington," she said softly.

For the first time that evening his grand objective, the purpose for his scheming, flew straight out of his head. It was because of the way she made him feel: like one of his idols of the silver screen, debonair and dashing as he swept her off her feet and into his arms. And she was the beauty he'd wooed and won. His leading lady, cradled against him, her kisses the fuel that sent him climbing the stairs two at a time. It was precisely the scene he'd pictured in his mind's eye...

Except there was one detail missing. He realized it as soon as he'd set her down on the bed. The lack bothered him enough that he drew back from her in the middle of a kiss.

A puzzled little frown had etched itself between her brows. "Where are you going?" she asked.

"To get the champagne. Won't be a moment."

Truly he didn't intend to spend more than that downstairs. But en route from the kitchen, the split of Möet and two flutes in his hands, the momentous nature of what he was about to do hit him with full force. Suddenly he was as nervous as the night he'd asked her to marry him.

He paced distractedly for a bit. Perhaps that was the path he ought to take, and not the underhanded one he was meditating. Since the beginning the watchword for tonight had been _defenses_--as in, toppling hers. Ply her with wonderful food and wine, make mad, passionate love to her and then in the afterglow talk her round to parenthood.

But what if he didn't? What if he imitated the night they got engaged? What if he simply got down on one knee, captured her hands in his and said in humble sincerity, "Laura, I love you very much. Would you have my baby?"

His footsteps on the stairs lagged as he debated it internally. Crossing the bedroom threshold brought him no nearer to a decision. But it did show him that the point had become moot. For though Laura was in the exact spot he'd left her, it was with a single significant difference: the rich meal on top of her run had taken its toll. She was sound asleep. And shaking her gently by the shoulder yielded only a sigh and a drowsy, "What took you so long?" before she subsided for good.

He could've worked harder to waken her, he supposed. But somehow it seemed more appropriate to comply with circumstances instead of defying them. That was why he tucked her under the covers, kissed her on the cheek and tiptoed away.

As for him? The sole recourse was the bathroom, where he set the taps in the shower to as cold as he could stand them. Stripping out of his clothes, he stepped inside and stood there, wincing as the frigid spray washed over him.

Foiled again.

TO BE CONTINUED


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

St. Mark and Hogarth had known each other thirty years and had been adversaries for nearly every minute of them.

That was just one of the juicy tidbits Mildred was waiting to report to the Steeles upon their arrival at the agency Monday morning. She'd also learned that the two men had first met as novice actors on a production of _Macbeth_ in the late 'fifties, where St. Mark had edged Hogarth out of the role of Malcolm. Not to be outdone, Hogarth had stolen St. Mark's girlfriend, an aspiring actress called Polly Cavanaugh.

Laura wrinkled her nose in disgust as she laid the sheaf of reports on the coffee table in Remington's office. "That answers a question that's been bothering me, what St. Mark's doing with Mrs. Hogarth. Now we know. Simple payback. If I had any respect left for him, I just lost it."

"Cold-blooded of him, I agree," said Remington. He'd assumed his favorite posture for brainstorming, tipped back in his chair with his feet propped on the desk. "Mildred, what about the job of Hambeth's executive director? Any record that St. Mark went after it?"

"I'll say he did. Lobbied pretty hard, too. But he didn't survive the first cut."

"Really? Why not?" asked Laura.

"No experience, for one thing. The only play he ever tried to direct got rotten reviews and folded inside a month. That was fifteen years ago. Not that it really mattered—my source tells me Hogarth was always the trustees' first choice. He's got a resume a mile long and everything he touches turns to box-office gold."

"St. Mark claims Hogarth can't act…obviously St. Mark can't direct. Yet under the skin they're more alike than they'd care to admit. I wonder if deep down they recognize it? And that's why they hate each other so much?" Laura mused.

"The more pertinent question is, why would Hogarth take a job at Hambeth in the first place, knowing full well his old enemy was already entrenched there?" Remington replied. "I'd call it deliberate provocation."

"Are you saying Hogarth might've pursued the job just to antagonize St. Mark?"

"It's a sure-fire way of setting a man off, threatening something—or someone-close to his heart."

That insight knocked the conversation briefly off track. It was bred from painful experience, as both Remington and Laura were aware. She met his eyes. Tony Roselli had dealt with Remington the previous autumn in the fashion he'd just described, except she, Laura, was the soft spot Roselli had chosen to attack. Remington rarely spoke of the episode or its aftermath, when his impulse to retaliate would've driven him to murder if not for the intervention of a couple of LAPD patrolmen. But she didn't need to hear the words to know it still haunted him, even after all these months.

Now wasn't the time or place to go into it. She only said lightly, "An interesting angle. If you're right, it gives St. Mark the strongest motive yet for undermining Hambeth. Got anything else for us, Mildred?"

Mildred did. The bulk of it was more illuminating than incriminating, though. Hogarth had once passed over Lachlan Ford for a part in a play Hogarth was directing—but they'd subsequently worked together several times in the interval before Ford's arrival at Hambeth. At the tender age of twenty-seven Lizbeth Lyons had already been through two divorces. Morwenna Pascoe was the daughter of two veterans of British stage and screen, purposely downplaying her connections in a quest to succeed big on her own terms. Judd Owen, by contrast, had made his start with an ambitious theater group in Chicago. He'd eventually lost his considerable stake in the venture to an embezzling partner.

And then there was Andy Treacher. "He's one of _those_ Treachers," Mildred said.

Remington looked mystified. "The only Treacher I know is Arthur. As in, _Thank You, Jeeves_ or _Step Lively, Jeeves_. Arthur Collins, David Niven, 1936. Wodehouse," he added, as if that explained everything.

"I don't think she means him," Laura said, transferring her gaze from her husband to Mildred. "You don't, do you?"

"Treacher Mills, the Canadian cereal empire. His family owns probably ninety-nine percent of Ontario."

The Steeles needed a moment or two to allow this to percolate. "He must be worth millions," said Laura. "What's he doing toiling away in obscurity in Solvang?"

Her question wasn't rhetorical, and Remington didn't take it as such. "Devotion to his art?" he suggested.

"One of us should definitely sound him out as soon as we get a chance…That partner of Judd Owen's, Mildred,the one who embezzled the money. Any connection with Hambeth?"

"None I could find so far."

"Keep digging. We'll be at Oliver Arundel's if anyone's looking for us."

Mildred kept pace with them as they moved out into the outer office. "Sure you don't want me along for the ride, boss? Someone who knows him, admires his work…might help soften him up a little."

"Haven't we been through this once?" Laura asked absently. Her thoughts were already occupied with the interview that lay ahead.

"Never hurts to ask."

"I don't think we'll have trouble softening him, and three of us grilling him could be a little intimidating. Maybe next time. Coming, Mr. Steele?"

Behind Laura's back, Remington pulled a long face to demonstrate his solidarity with Mildred and gave her shoulder a consolatory squeeze. "Nice try, darling, really. Very clever." And he followed in his wife out the door.

The boxes that littered his living room were a clue it wasn't too long since Arundel had moved into his West Hollywood apartment. "It's been back-to-back auditions since the day I got to town," he explained as the Steeles took the seats he'd offered. "Great for the career, not so great for setting up house."

"Hoping to break into films, are you?" Remington asked him.

"I wouldn't say no if someone offered," Arundel replied. "But at this stage it's television work I'm after."

He was a trim, fair-haired man in his early forties with the kind of sculpted features that seemed a little too delicate in person but videotaped well. His looks were perfectly suited to the period dramas in which he'd been so successful for the BBC in the seventies. Why he'd abandoned such a lucrative means of earning his living to return to the stage—and, more particularly, Hambeth—was a bit of a mystery.

But it didn't have any bearing on the case, as far as Laura could see. Besides, she and Remington had already worked out a line of questioning they hoped would shed more light on the supposed Hambeth curse. How had it originated? Was there a tie-in with the accidents? Why was St. Mark so insistent it was Hogarth's fault? That was what they were trying to establish. And the incident with the musket, the one that had discharged live ammo during rehearsal of a scene from _Macbeth_, seemed the obvious starting point.

It wasn't long before they knew they'd come to the right place. Not only was Arundel present when the musket went off, he definitely wasn't burdened with a sense of loyalty to the company that had demanded a major chunk of cash to release him from his contractual obligations. There was no need for the "softening up" Mildred had hinted at; he was more than willing to talk freely. "Make no mistake, the curse is real," he said. "I was convinced the moment that bullet went whizzing by my ear. Two inches to the left, and I wouldn't be talking to you now."

"Is that the reason you broke your contract?" asked Laura. "Fear of the curse?"

"It is. And I'd do it again without thinking twice. I'm not brave enough to defy the powers of the supernatural, Mrs. Steele. Or foolhardy enough. I only wish Edmund Hogarth could see it like I do."

Though pronounced with less vehemence, the statement was similar to the one St. Mark had made to Laura in his dressing room a few days ago. She exchanged a glance with Remington, who picked up the thread. "I'm afraid I'm on Mr. Hogarth's side in this one," he said. "It's a bit difficult to swallow, the idea of fires starting on their own, light boards shorting out, scenery falling, all because someone slipped and said the name 'Macbeth' out loud."

Arundel's pleasant expression hardened. "And if someone didn't merely 'slip', as you call it? But intentionally repeated it at the top of his lungs, never mind the consequences? Could you swallow it then?"

"All the more reason to search for a human culprit, instead of blaming mysterious dark forces."

"What an insulting way to put it." Arundel had flushed an unbecoming shade of scarlet.

His defensiveness was the natural reaction of a man who thought his cherished belief was under attack, Laura thought. Hastily she interjected, "That isn't Mr. Steele's intention. But in our experience, it's best not to rule out an underlying motive in these situations. From what you've told us, someone invoked the curse deliberately. Are you sure that's how it happened?"

"Considering I was standing next to him at the time, of course I'm sure. It's not the kind of behavior you expect from your director."

The Steeles made the necessary leap in almost the same second; it was Remington who voiced it for them both. "Do we take it you're referring to Mr. Hogarth? He's the one who said the fateful word?"

"He always was skeptical about the curse. But in my opinion his main reason was to get a rise out of Aubrey St. Mark."

"What makes you think so?" asked Laura.

"They argued about if for weeks. Every rehearsal, every performance, until it nearly drove the rest of us mad. Aubrey's very sensitive about theater superstitions, and he tends to be a little…zealous…in observing them. Keeps the rest of the company up to scratch, too."

"Including the director," Remington said.

"I'd say he was justified, wouldn't you? Look what Hogarth started. And he's the only one who can finish it."

"By—do I have this right-?" said Laura. "Leaving the theater, spinning around three times and spitting-?"

"—and swearing. And then knocking for re-admittance. Not much to ask when you think about it," Arundel replied.

"But Hogarth won't do it," Remington said. It wasn't a question.

That was all right, because Arundel didn't answer. He didn't have to. Even after so short and acquaintance, the Steeles knew Hogarth well enough to know he wouldn't have backed down. Whether the curse was real or not, he could've soothed a lot of jangled nerves by going along with the simple remedy. That he hadn't bothered spoke volumes about his character…and, maybe, his animosity towards St. Mark.

For Laura it also connected the final dot in a picture she was assembling from various clues. "You tried to persuade him, didn't you?" she asked Arundel. "And in the end that's what drove you from Hambeth."

"He called me a fool and accused me of conspiring with Aubrey to challenge his authority," he replied. "How could I keep working for him after that?"

There wasn't much more to discuss; they'd traveled as far down that avenue as Arundel could take them. But before the Steeles departed, Laura held a sheet of paper and a pen out to him. "Would you mind? It's for our assistant. She never misses you on _Masterpiece Theater_."

"I'd be delighted. What's her name?"

Laura told him. He inscribed something rapidly on the page, folded it twice and returned it with a smile. "Next time bring her with you. It's always a pleasure to meet a loyal fan."

Back at the agency, while Mildred went into transports over Arundel's autograph, and Laura attempted to satisfy Mildred's demand for details on how he'd looked and sounded throughout the interview, Remington stood by, flipping idly through the mail. He wasn't waiting for anything in particular, nor expecting anything out of the ordinary. A mere reflex, that's what it was.

Seconds later, he was blessing heaven for it; it ensured it was he who discovered the envelope addressed to him in an unmistakably feminine hand. The violet ink, the flimsy stationery, as unsuitable for a mundane business communication as they could possibly be, aroused his curiosity. And was that a whiff of Tabu he detected as he slit the flap and drew out two closely written pages?

_Remington, my darling lover,_ was the opening phrase.

His mouth dropped open.

_It's five in the morning…only an hour since you left our bed…and I can still feel your good-bye kiss burning on my lips…When I close my eyes, I can see __your__ amazing eyes…so clear, so blue…and the look in them as you took me as only you can…_

He gasped. Possibly his involuntary exclamation was louder than it ought to have been. "Good Lord."

As soon as it was out, he'd have given anything to retract it. One shocked glimpse had shown him that the next lines continued in the same vein, except they were increasingly explicit, prose so purple it made him blush like the former Catholic schoolboy he was. The last thing he needed was to attract Laura's attention to it and everything it implied: deceit, infidelity, betrayal—

There was only one remedy for it. Hide it from her. And quick.

A lost cause? For she was already cannily eying the envelope, no doubt with suspicion burgeoning in her mind. "What's that?" she asked.

Until that moment he hadn't realized how far his capacity for glib lies had dwindled over the course of their marriage. "Ah…electric bill," he stammered. "Unconscionable, the rates they're charging. I wouldn't pay them if I were you. In fact"-he was struggling with fumbling fingers to cram the envelope into an inside jacket pocket—"I'll take care of it, eh? Don't worry, it's okay."

"Let me see that." And the letter was summarily whisked out of his hand.

She bent over the pages. Her eyes widened as she read. Remington grimaced in dismay.

"What is it, boss?" This from Mildred, hushed and breathless. She knew as well as he did what that look of Laura's meant.

Laura glanced up. "It's a letter from some woman to Mr. Steele," she said. A contrast with Mildred: her tone was matter-of-fact. "Thanking him for their latest rendezvous and wondering when she'll see him again. Is that about the size of it, Mr. Steele?"

Mildred's gasp was almost as loud as his had been. "Rat fink!"

Though he did his best to deflect it, the smack she landed on his shoulder still smarted. "Ouch!" he protested. "Mildred, please-!" Then he promptly forgot about the pain as he faced his wife. "Laura, I swear to you, I've no idea who sent that. I'm not—I wouldn't—It's got to be a mix-up of some sort, a mistake, she's confused me with someone else-"

She was listening impassively. A pair of vertical lines had grooved her forehead.

"-There's no woman for me but you, on my oath, there isn't. You've got to believe me," he finished.

"I do."

"You do?"

"Whoever this woman's sleeping with, it isn't you." Lips twitching in what he suddenly recognized as suppressed amusement, Laura passed the envelope back to him. "Check the postmark."

The date was that of the preceding Tuesday—specifically, the day they'd arrived at Hambeth. "I think I can safely vouch for your whereabouts," Laura said with a significant little smile. It faded as she went on: "What's going on here is a lot more serious. We've dropped the ball, much as I hate to admit it."

She waited a beat for Remington or Mildred to jump in. They looked at each other and then at her, groping for a clue that would explain what she talking about.

"It's another bogus Remington Steele sighting. Remember? The sweater company in Maine? The lecture at Framingham University in Massachusetts? We were going to follow up, but never did."

Enlightenment dawned at last for her two associates. As it did they stole a second glance at one another, shame-faced. Each of them indulged in the temptation now and then to believe that they were ready to assert themselves as detectives in their own right, with skill and knowledge and clear-sightedness to rival Laura's. It took a situation like this to remind them that, much as they'd learned, they both had miles to go before they could even hope to keep up with her.

She'd turned to the letter's final page and was examining the signature. "Elaine Casselas. Sounds like she met whoever he is a while ago and has been seeing him ever since. And they really get around. Wilton, Connecticut…Trenton, New Jersey…New York City. What's the return address, Mr. Steele?"

"Quinnipiac University, Hamden, Connecticut."

"New England, same as the other sightings. That could mean something."

Remington thought she was probably unaware that she'd begun to pace. He followed her with his eyes. "Theory, Mrs. Steele."

"There isn't one to speak of yet. The location's a common denominator and we have three eyewitnesses. But that won't tell us much about what this guy's up to. What we really need is to get a line on him in person."

"Fly out there, you mean? Not feasible, with the Hambeth case heating up."

"Astute observation. Mildred, we'll have to rely on you."

"What are we talking, boss? Legwork in Connecticut?"

"Computer work in Century City, digging up any instances you can find of Remington Steele turning up lately east of the Mississippi. I know-" with Mildred on the verge of an objection, Laura held up a hand to forestall it "—you could handle the trip out East. And we could really use you there. But we can't leave the office unattended that long. I don't see any way around it." She turned a dubious expression on her husband. "Unless you and I split up. One of us tackles Hambeth while the other tracks our impostor."

He didn't even have to open his mouth for Laura to guess that he was going to "put his foot down", as he liked to call it. She couldn't blame him. The past four months had served to underscore a fundamental truth about their partnership. They had the incident in Pramagiorre and the upheaval with Anna to thank for it. Somehow separation-personally, professionally-diminished them a little, made them weaker, slower to react, more susceptible to danger. They were better together. And intentionally choosing to work solo was to fly in the face of the hard lessons they'd learned.

She was right: that was the gist of Remington's argument. "And there's another thing," he remarked at the end of it. "Aren't you blowing the threat just the tiniest bit out of proportion?"

"What are you talking about? This joker's been pretending to be Remington Steele at least six months that we know of, and maybe longer. Which means whatever he hopes to gain, he's serious about it."

"Serious, perhaps. Dangerous? That's another story."

"I'm not following you."

"You said it yourself. He's been at this masquerade since as far back as September. And what have the repercussions been? A bill for a sweater or two we didn't order, and—that." He indicated the letter in her hand. "Not exactly _The Phantom of Paris_, is it? John Gilbert, Leila Hyams, Lewis Stone, MGM, 1931."

She was too intent on grasping his rationale to press him for a synopsis. "So you're saying it's safe to put in on the back burner, given the fact he doesn't seem to be out to get us."

"We've waited this long. Another week or two shouldn't hurt."

Since marrying Remington, Laura had had less and less resort to throwing her weight around as the owner of the agency; the level of trust they'd achieved had fed her conviction that the business was just as safe with him as she was herself. But between them there still existed the presumption, unspoken, rarely challenged, that final authority rested with her.

So she weighed them mentally, the potential damage the bogus Remington Steele might cause versus the bad timing, inconvenience and shortage of available manpower within the agency. And then she rendered her verdict.

"Okay. We'll postpone the trip to Connecticut until we've wrapped up the Hambeth case."

It was a decision she and Remington would regret bitterly in the weeks to come.

* * *

Even back in the days when Remington Steele was an imaginary figurehead, rather than a fake one, Laura had taken care to cultivate good relations with the Los Angeles Press Club. True, the elusive Mr. Steele had routinely had to decline invitations they extended to their gala events-but he was always happy to underwrite a portion of the expenses. And the agency checkbook was among the first to open in support of the club's pet causes. So it was only natural that once the flesh-and-blood Mr. Steele manifested himself as a popular fixture on the social scene, the club would include him annually as a presenter at their signature banquet, the L. A. Newsman of the Year Awards.

That was where Monday evening found Remington and Laura: at a table for twelve in the Beverly Hills Sheraton's glittering ballroom. As luck would have it, one of their tablemates was someone who, though not exactly an enemy, had proven quick to promote her own interests at the expense of their reputation on more than one occasion. Windsor Thomas' determination to land a scoop that would catapult her to local stardom had thrown a huge wrench into their investigation of the disappearance of Billie Young. That was two years ago, while she was still a reporter for _L. A. Spotlight News_, instead of its lead anchor. More recently she'd reported Tony Roselli's break-in at their office on her highly-rated newscast. It had taken a concerted public relations effort on the part of the Steele agency to repair the damage she'd helped wreak on their business.

The Steeles didn't exactly ignore her, but they didn't make it a priority to engage her in conversation, either. The width of the table provided an excellent pretext for keeping their distance. But on stage in his capacity as a presenter, Remington could no longer avoid her. He was the one who handed over her award for Best Television Newsman, and the first to offer his congratulations on her win.

"Well-deserved, I'm sure," he added.

She looked amused as he gave her his arm to lead her back to their table. "You say that like you really mean it."

"I can appreciate your industriousness and dedication even though I don't always care for your results."

"Don't tell me. You're still mad at me for the way I handled the anonymous tipster who called me about the break-in."

"Not at all. Nothing should deter that nose for news of yours, as you're so fond of pointing out. But you'll forgive me if it's made me a little leery of trusting you."

"Does that mean you're not going to dance with me tonight? And here I had my heart set on it."

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "I wasn't aware I'd asked you."

"It's tradition for the presenter to dance with the winner where it's appropriate."

"Far be it from me to fly in the face of tradition."

They'd reached the table by that point and it was over an hour later that they met on the dance floor. The first minutes there were a little awkward. It wasn't a situation he was used to these days, dancing with a woman whose face was on a level with his; it needed three-inch heels for Laura even to top his shoulder. Or perhaps the constraint stemmed from his hunch that Windsor rather fancied him. Certainly in their past encounters there had lurked beneath her general flirtatiousness an underlying suggestion that she was his for the asking. All there remained was for him to pose the question.

He never had. Funny, that, for Windsor was much more his type than Laura—or at least what his type used to be. Tall, statuesque, her auburn hair and her makeup elaborately done, her jade green gown the latest fashion in big shoulders and glitz, she looked like the national media star she was aspiring to become. And exactly like the women he'd pursued in those first heady months after assuming the identity of Remington Steele.

Windsor was no less beautiful or desirable than any of them had been. It was he who'd changed, along with his tastes. And their exemplar was—where? Swiftly he scanned the room for Laura. In the arms of Russell Stewart, a co-anchor from _Spotlight News_' rival, Channel 3. No reason for jealousy on Remington's part: he and Laura had crossed paths with Stewart on an early case, and Remington knew Laura considered him a pompous ass and a coward to boot. But he let his eyes rest on her for a few moments, his first chance to appreciate how well she looked tonight. Absolutely lovely in a simple, strapless white sheath, her hair swept up to reveal the elegant lines of her shoulders and throat. Compared to her Windsor was positively Amazonian.

He breathed a sigh of pleasure-and then smiled, self-deprecating. The reality was, any good in him was entirely due to Laura. S_he'd_ changed him, the slip of a lass he'd taken to wife, and who would soon be the mother of his child. And one thing was certain. He would never stop wanting her. No amount of seductive glances or carefully casual touches from Windsor Thomas could avail against that inalterable fact.

Amidst his musings he was careful to keep his guard up, conscious that she was trying to draw him out with questions about himself. With Windsor it was difficult to be sure where sexual attraction ended and professional advancement began. Possibly they were one and the same. Not that he was overly worried. His skill at withholding information was unimpaired, even if outright lying no longer came as easily to him as it once had.

"Oh…here and there," was what he replied when she asked where he was raised.

"That's not an answer, Remington."

He said nothing.

"Or if it is, it's vague and mysterious. Like your entire biography, if you want to know the truth."

"On the contrary, my life's an open book. You just have to know how to read it."

They took a turn or two in silence. "Why the interest in me?" he continued. "If it isn't violating your press privileges to ask."

"You said it earlier. My nose for news. This reporter smells a secret whenever you're around."

"Perhaps it's simply an embedded reaction. Comes with the territory, doesn't it? The journalistic instinct, and so forth? Even when there's no story to tell?"

"You could be right. Of course, we could get to know each other better, and then you'd know for sure."

That he let pass without comment. His inclination was to end the conversation, since the musical number was all but over, only he thought it behooved him to figure out what she was driving at. So he nodded towards the band as they swung into "Starlight". "Shall we?"

The doggedness that had made her the most successful investigative reporter in L. A. was still operating at full strength. "You're hiding something, Remington Steele," she said. "Damned if I know what it is. But it could be fun finding out. "

"Should I take that as a proposition or a warning?"

"How about if I leave it up to you to decide?"

He mulled it over. "The latter, I suspect. But let me give you a warning as well. Many…resourceful…women have tried what you're suggesting. And failed."

The double entendre came as close to communicating his non-interest in her as he could without actually saying it out loud. He could only hope she was savvy enough to see it.

"Does that include Laura?" she asked.

"As I said…an open book, for the one who knows how to read it." His glance at his wife was involuntary.

It was also brief, but Windsor caught it anyway. "Well, I can't say I'm surprised. She has looks _and_ brains. A rare combination, if you ask me." The hazel gaze she fixed on his face was tinged with regret. "I hope she realizes how lucky she is."

As an acceptance of his subtle rejection it was as graceful as it could be. He tipped his hat to her inwardly while ushering her towards her seat. "Trust me, the luck's all on my side," he said.

But his admiration receded under the influence of her next words. Someone had hailed her from a nearby table; she was turning away. As she did, she said, "Not too long ago, you got angry because I didn't get in touch with you before airing a story you didn't like. Remember?"

Uneasy at what was coming next—punch line or bombshell, he couldn't predict which—he nodded.

"I'll promise you something. When I do find out your secret, I'll give you advance warning before I take it live. Deal?" She tossed back a coquettish smile. "I wouldn't make that offer to anyone but you, Remington."

Staring after her, he felt a hand on his sleeve: Laura, come up behind him unnoticed, apparently in time to hear at least a snippet of his and Windsor's exchange. "What was that about?" she said.

"Stirring up the pot to see what would float to the surface, I think."

"And did it?"

"Hard to tell. She has an amazing talent for hinting she knows more than she actually does."

"Must be a job requirement in the news business," Laura said dryly. "Russell Stewart is the same. Only with a lot less justification."

"And how did you find our bold and enterprising correspondent this evening?"

"A legend in his own mind, at least on the dance floor. Care to show him how it's done, Mr. Steele?" She slipped her hand into his and began to lead him out.

But he pretended to hang back. "A demonstration for Stewart? I'm not sure it's sufficient motivation," he objected.

"To hell with him." She'd turned to face him and was drawing him to her. "A do-over of last night is what I'm after."

"In what context?"

"All of it, except for dinner. We're going to dance until the party's over…And neck in the back seat of the limo all the way home…And then you're going to take me to bed. And make up for everything I missed when I fell asleep." Her final statement was delivered in a throaty whisper directly into his ear.

Her arms tightened around his waist; she laid her head against his shoulder. Automatically his body inclined in the slight stoop necessary to gather her close. There was the softness of her hair, the perfect spot on which to rest his cheek, and the gentle scent of flowers that seemed less a perfume than the essence of Laura herself–so different from the heavy cloud of Poison, dramatic make-up and swirling auburn locks of the woman from whom he'd separated a few moments ago without an ounce of regret.

And he thought: This is more like it. Yes. Indeed.

Windsor Thomas was entirely forgotten.

* * *

In point of fact, Remington had it backwards, if not altogether wrong. When it came to Remington Steele, Windsor Thomas knew more than she was hinting at.

A lot more.

It was a fund of information whose foundation dated from the previous September. Remington Steele Investigations had released a PR piece designed to reverse the fallout resulting from the news that an intruder had ransacked their offices—a story Windsor had played a major role in perpetuating. Something about their counter-story had struck her as definitely off. She had an unerring instinct for those kinds of inconsistencies. Such was her personality that she couldn't rest until she'd resolved them.

That wasn't the only force driving her. There was pique at Steele, who from the first moment she'd laid eyes on him had made it abundantly clear that _his_ eyes were for his pretty associate alone, in defiance of Windsor's beauty-queen looks and figure. That didn't sit too well with Windsor, the former first runner-up to Miss Oklahoma 1979; she was used to landing her man. But mostly she was prompted by overweening ambition. The _Spotlight News_ anchor seat was a strategic starting point on a trajectory that would carry her straight to Tom Brokaw's or Peter Jennings' job. And exposing Remington Steele as a fraud was the fuel that would launch her.

It wouldn't happen overnight. She'd recognized it from the start and accepted it. As lead anchor she was the pivot around which _Spotlight News _revolved. She couldn't just pick up and take off whenever she felt like it, investing time and resources in a story that might not pan out, especially one that the station brass hadn't sanctioned. Hell, they didn't even know about it! She'd had to confine her efforts to evenings and weekends and the odd day off. It wasn't until Christmas that she was able to fly to London to interview her most promising sources in person.

All she had to show for it at the end of day one was an acute case of frustration. That her first subjects, an uncle and niece who'd served as Daniel Chalmers' lawyers, would be circumspect about disclosing information was a given—but she didn't expect them to be close-mouthed to the point of muteness. The most she could get from them was a confirmation that Remington Steele was Chalmers' son. Where and when he was born, who his mother was, they couldn't say. Courteously they'd directed her to apply to the local hospitals should she have further inquiries.

But with Lillian Dalgeish, née Chalmers, Windsor hit pay dirt. Steele's aunt on the paternal side was cool and aloof at the outset of their phone conversation. But she warmed right up when Windsor alluded diplomatically to discrepancies in the official version of her nephew's background. There was bad blood between the two; Windsor could feel it. En route to the Dalgleish home in Gloucestershire at Lillian's invitation, she'd plotted how best to exploit it.

She didn't have to. The old lady came through without any prodding from Windsor. Steele's mother was an Irish girl named Fitzgibbon who'd divorced his father and died without remarrying to Lillian's knowledge. The boy had come to live with his father in London as a teenager but apparently never assumed the Chalmers name. And Steele had let slip a remark during a visit the previous summer that Lillian recalled with absolute clarity: that his name was given him by a woman who'd loved him as much as his parents had, and he'd made it his own.

It was purely anecdotal evidence, and maybe it could be explained away. But Windsor didn't think so. To her it looked a lot like a corroboration of what she already knew deep in her gut: whoever this man was, he wasn't Remington Steele.

Five months later, she'd succeeded only in proving what else he wasn't.

He didn't graduate from the Ivy League, as his bio claimed.

The CIA—in fact, the entire Defense Department—had never heard of him.

There was no record that he'd ever studied or apprenticed at a detective agency, reputable or shady, extant or defunct, in the whole United States.

Prior to the founding of Remington Steele Investigations in early 1980, he'd never consulted on a case, provided testimony at the trial of a criminal he'd nabbed, or appeared at a single law enforcement event.

Important pieces of the puzzle, all of them. Unfortunately, none of them could shed light on his identity. In that respect she was up against a brick wall. And ready to tear it down brick by brick if she had to, before she'd let it stand between her and her dreams.

But things were looking up. She had a contact in the homicide division of the LAPD, a young clerk who occasionally passed her a tip when he thought she could take advantage of it. He'd alerted her to the fact that Steele had been entangled in some fashion in the recent death of Anna Patton, widow of well-known industrialist Walter Patton. Curtis wasn't sure how—the head the homicide squad, Jimmy Jarvis, had issued strict orders that the incident be kept under wraps—but he figured if anyone could make sense of it, it was Windsor.

That was two weeks ago. Since then she'd worked like a demon to fill in the background on the mysterious Mrs. Patton, who might have been Steele's feminine counterpart, so sparse and insubstantial were the available facts. She did manage to finagle from Curtis a photocopy of the dead woman's passport, which gave her at least a country of origin from which to start.

Her Easter vacation was two days away. She'd already purchased her plane ticket.

Monte Carlo, and the secrets it might yield to an industrious, dedicated reporter with a nose for news, beckoned.

TO BE CONTINUED


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

If Remington and Laura entertained the notion that the weekend off would lighten the atmosphere at Hambeth, their arrival at Tuesday morning's rehearsal at the Garrick disabused them of it in five minutes flat. Hostility seethed within the company, unexpressed but plain to read in jutting jaws, tight voices and furious sidelong glances. Of the principles the Steeles had met and spoken to, only Wycliffe and Diane Bell seemed immune to the general tension.

It was Wycliffe who confided its source to Remington. "My son's put his foot in it, I'm afraid. He's sprung a schedule change on us. A special performance of _Hamlet _for the Dress Circle Club on Saturday night."

"The Dress Circle Club?"

"It's a perk Hambeth offers its bigger donors. Entitles them to advance tickets, reserved seating, backstage access to the actors…" Wycliffe gave a mock shudder. "Rather hard on us, that sort of hob-and-nob. Personally I'd prefer a sharp stick in the eye. Must keep the money people happy, though."

"I wouldn't have thought he could assemble much of an audience at such short notice," said Remington.

"Oh, it's been planned for some time. Edmund didn't see fit to inform us, that's all. It's one of the methods he likes to use—putting us in pressure situations. Clutch time, he calls it. He says it makes for a better performance." He gestured in the direction of his colleagues. "You can see for yourself how well they've taken it."

At that moment Cledwyn Rhys jostled Judd Owen, who turned on him with fists clenched before apparently thinking better of it and stomping away. "It does seem to be fostering a certain…camaraderie…amongst you," Remington agreed.

Wycliffe laughed. "Normally I try to avoid speaking in clichés, but as the Yanks would say, you ain't seen nothin' yet." His bright-eyed gaze softened. "I've been hoping to have a little private conversation with you, John. But the others have been monopolizing you up to now."

What with the intricacies of the case and his personal parenthood project, Remington had been too busy to think much about Wycliffe's amazing confession of a week ago. Now it suddenly occurred to him: this was a once-in-a lifetime opportunity to acquaint himself with his father and grandfather from a perspective that even his aunt Lillian Dalgleish couldn't deliver. And here he was, failing to profit by it, at risk of squandering it! Gratitude surged in him to Wycliffe for pointing it out. "I'd like that," he said.

"Good. Tomorrow at ten in my dressing room, then. We'll start with a training session. And I'll introduce you to my own peculiar areas of expertise."

At length Laura returned to Remington's side—she'd been off consulting with her new mentor, Diana Bell—and they discreetly brought each other up to speed as they sat down to watch the players. The assistant director, Gerry Kelleher, was at the helm, putting the cast through their paces in terms of blocking and staging. From a couple of comments he made, the Steeles deduced that the notes he was consulting weren't his own, but Hogarth's.

Hogarth's notes; Hogarth's method. Unfair though it might have been, it was nevertheless producing the results he intended. The actors were focused and prepared. None of them missed a mark or flubbed a single line, not even those who'd had their roles re-assigned in mid-stream. In Remington's and Laura's admittedly untrained eyes, there was no question the cast would be ready to dazzle the Dress Circle Club with a sterling performance on Saturday night.

The Steeles had settled between them that Laura should be the one to approach Andy Treacher, so when Kelleher broke for lunch, she hurried to catch up with the incognito millionaire. "Got a minute?" she asked.

He appeared to be surprised by the attention, but waited good-humoredly for her to fall into step with him. "How are you enjoying your time at Hambeth, Miss Randall?"

"Terry. So far it's everything I hoped it would be."

"Really?" From his considerable height he bent a satirical grin on her. It made his bony, near-homely face instantly appealing. "You were hoping for mass hysteria and mild chaos? Or maybe mass chaos and mild hysteria?"

Laura laughed. "None of the above. Just a chance to observe real professionals up close and learn from you, if I can."

"Well, good for you. And good for you for sticking it out. Working at Hambeth definitely isn't for the faint-hearted."

The rehearsal hall was serving the function of temporary commissary, and Treacher motioned Laura to precede him into the buffet line. "It's interesting you should say that," she commented as she helped herself to crudités. "Seeing how you chose to leave Stratford to come here."

"Which should tell you something about me."

"What's that?"

There was Treacher's attractive grin again. "I'm not faint-hearted."

"But it was an unusual career move, wasn't it? Trading big audiences and a worldwide reputation for second best? Most actors would've gone the opposite route."

"That would depend on the actor. My goals are a little…different."

They found seats across from one another at a long table that was unoccupied except for them. It was something of a gamble, putting what she and Remington knew about Treacher out there, but Laura decided to take the direct tack anyway. "You mean because of who you are? Great-grandson of the founder of Treacher Mills?"

"Sh! Sh! Keep your voice down!" After a quick glance around to make sure no one had heard, he leaned towards her and demanded in an anxious whisper, "How do you know about that?"

"The name…the fact that you came from Stratford. I put two and two together. Why, is it supposed to be a secret?"

"Not a secret, exactly. It's just a whole lot easier, living without the baggage that comes from being a well-known rich kid. Most Americans never heard of Treacher Mills."

"And that makes it okay to pretend you're dependent on this job, same as the rest of the company?"

"Look." Still poised in an attitude that said he was about to share a confidence, Treacher crossed his arms on the table. "Stratford's a great theater, a wonderful theater, best in the world. Auditioning, getting hired—it was a dream come true, you bet. And I worked hard. I was going to show them—show everybody—I was serious, I could cut it. Didn't make a damned bit of difference."

"The baggage you were talking about that comes from being a well-known rich kid. It got in the way."

"My family's money bought me the job, okay, or I'm a dilettante who doesn't need to work, which justified passing me over for the best parts. That's what people thought. I couldn't win."

Laura was feeling a warm pull of sympathy towards him, the kinship of a fellow dreamer who knew what it was like to watch the world trample on cherished hopes. Instead of accepting failure, Treacher had re-invented himself, just as she had. "So you came to Hambeth to prove yourself anonymously."

"Face it, in the looks department, I'm not exactly Aubrey St. Mark or Cledwyn Rhys. I know I'll never play Romeo or Henry the Fifth or Bassanio as long as guys like them are around. But Mercutio, Hotspur, Antonio…why shouldn't I have a crack at them?"

"And have you?"

"Yep." Treacher's grin was broader than ever. "And Rosencrantz, now that Oliver Arundel's gone."

Laura looked up sharply. Had he just unwittingly confessed to the sabotage that had driven Arundel from Hambeth? Jealousy of a different sort than she and Remington had conjectured might very well be at work here. A talented actor who assumed he was locked out of leading man roles in favor of cast mates with more conventional leading man looks was as potentially dangerous as a spurned lover, his sense of injustice liable to fester just as fiercely, his desire for revenge just as hot.

The problem was, unlike Judd Owen, Treacher's demeanor didn't strike her as either fierce or hot. Probing a little further, she said, "And it doesn't bother you, the idea that Hambeth could be cursed?"

"That's a bunch of bull. Arundel was an idiot to let it spook him into leaving. His loss, my gain." His curious glance traveled over her face. "Does it bother you?"

"Not as much as what's happened today. I can't blame everyone for being upset. You seem okay with it, though."

"I am okay with it. Besides, I can sympathize with Hogarth. It's not easy, dealing with the patrons on top of everything else."

"You're speaking from experience?"

"No, but I can imagine. My family's always donating and investing in the arts. If the Dress Circle is anything like them, Hogarth's got his hands full."

It was a remark that gave suggested several intriguing avenues to Laura. She was all for exploring them, but Remington sauntered over just then with Morwenna Pascoe in tow. "Ah, Rosencrantz, I presume," he greeted Treacher. "Here's your Guildenstern, ready to be reunited with you." And he smirked in appreciation of his own joke.

His meeting up with Pascoe was the opposite of Laura's and Treacher's: unplanned. Somehow in exiting the Garrick they'd ended up side by side. It was as good an opportunity as any to introduce himself and engage in a little chat, Remington thought.

He had, and had discovered a second dissimilarity with Andy Treacher. Where Treacher seemed determined to cover up the happy accident of biology that had made him the scion of a wealthy family, Morwenna Pascoe was more than forthcoming about the one that had conferred accomplished thespians on her as parents. "They've been super, really, proud and supportive," she'd told him. "They'd do a lot more to see my career take off, but I've been determined to make it on my own."

That jibed with the facts Mildred had assembled. "They've given you a lovely and unusual first name," he said. "Cornish, isn't it?"

"How strange that you recognized it. Do you know Cornwall?"

"A little." He hadn't the heart to tell her he that his knowledge derived mainly from cinema. "That's where you're from?"

"My father. A village called Polwithy that doesn't rate even a dot on the map. My grandfather still lives there. In his eyes, we're upcountry foreigners, my parents and I. He's the only true Cornishman among us. But he tries not to hold it against us."

Remington had laughed. " 'Tis different you are from the Irish, then," he'd replied, for once allowing a trace of his brogue to penetrate his everyday speech. "For if you've but a hint of the old sod about you, even if you never set foot on it again, you're an Irishman until you die."

The easy little exchange had helped build a bridge between them, as he'd intended it should; he'd felt confident he could begin to ask more pointed questions. He'd waited for a few minutes to elapse, and for their entry into the buffet line, before he began. "You don't seem to have taken it terribly amiss, the reassignment of your role."

"Don't I?" A pause. "It doesn't show, then."

"So you do mind."

"I'm furious. But what good does it do? It won't change anything."

She reminded him of Laura a little: clear-headed and collected. More than ever he wondered at the contrast between Morwenna Pascoe and the woman who'd replaced her, as well as Hogarth's rationale for making the switch in the first place. "You and Miss Lyons are…very different sorts of actresses."

"Miss Lyons is a tart," she'd said dismissively. Again the resemblance to Laura, this time in her steady, forthright gaze. "Ready? I see Andy Treacher there with your wife. Should we join them?"

Laura, he recognized immediately, had that air about her that signaled she was satisfied with the information she'd extracted. "Jim, Andy was just telling me where he stands on the curse," she said as Remington and Pascoe sat down.

"Oh?" Remington looked across at Treacher. "And where's that?"

"Accidents happen. Curses? Not so much. Except in Shakespeare."

"On the side of the skeptics, in other words," Remington said.

"And you, Miss Pascoe?" asked Laura. "Are you a skeptic, as well?"

"Hardly. And I've made it my mission to convert Andy into a believer. It would be awful if anyone got hurt…Of course we all know whose fault _that _would be, even if none of us admits it out loud." Pascoe inclined her head towards the door through which Hogarth had just entered.

And Laura turned to Remington with an expression that said: Suspect number five.

* * *

That evening, as they browsed the aisles of Solvang's lone supermarket, she remarked, "You know, I'm beginning to think we're wasting our time."

Remington was too familiar with her habit of brainstorming aloud to assume she was referring to their current errand: picking up the approximation of a cold supper en route to their hotel. And from the tone of her voice he could tell Laura wasn't necessarily soliciting his input. He didn't mind in the slightest. It, too, was familiar to him, this role of sounding board. Over the years it had become one of the strengths he contributed to their partnership.

So, contemplating the contents of the dairy case, he merely said, "Swiss or American?"

"Cheddar. I mean, we could go on the way we are until we've interviewed every member of the company. Look at the progress we made today. Andy Treacher and Morwenna Pascoe. Lachlan Ford, Baird Kennicot and Simon Glasslough. But did we really learn anything new?"

Yes, something was definitely simmering in that lovely head of hers. Remington could see the signs. One of them was total obliviousness to where she was headed with the shopping cart. With a firm hand beneath her elbow he steered her out of the path of an oncoming dolly laden with large boxes.

She went on: "Except for Andy Treacher, everyone we've talked to dislikes Hogarth and believes in the curse. I'm willing to bet the rest will be the same." Breaking off, she frowned. "Though it goes without saying that Diana doesn't hate Hogarth. Or Wycliffe, either."

"Mm-hm." They'd reached the lunch meat aisle. "Ham or turkey?"

"Ham. Meanwhile we could go on pursuing their personal histories and analyzing their possible motives. Which would be fine ordinarily, since we'd have the luxury of time. But we don't. Not with this fake Remington Steele business hanging over our heads. How do we wrap this case up fast without compromising the integrity of our investigation?"

His hand dropped to the small of her back as they continued to stroll. Halting her at the self-serve salad bar, he chose samples of cold pasta Florentine and a run-of-the-mill macaroni and mayonnaise dish for her to compare and raised a spoon to her lips. "Taste."

Obediently she cleaned the spoon both times. "Mm. That one." She'd opted for the Florentine. "We need a plan to smoke out the culprit, if there is one. Something unexpected…"

At the tiny wine rack he pre-selected a couple of bottles for her inspection. Though he'd taught her a lot over the course of their relationship, wine, like cooking, remained his province by right of superior knowledge and taste. Still, consulting her preference was the gentlemanly thing to do. "White or red?"

"White. Something dramatic…"

In the last aisle but one, he tossed a package of Little Debbie Devil Squares—a treat he could personally live without—into the cart and grinned down at her. "Doesn't do to forget dessert. Eh, Mrs. Steele?"

"Thanks. Something that would make the whole cast sit up and take notice."

She fell into a brown study after that, and the rest of the shopping was accomplished in silence. Their advance to the checkout counter brought him to the moment he'd been premeditating since they'd entered the store. _Parent Magazine_ was one of the titles arranged in a rack at the head of the counter. With a big show of stealth calculated to attract Laura's attention, he slipped a copy into the cart, watching her covertly as he did so. In her abstraction she made no comment, but she'd seen, all right. He was sure of it.

It wasn't until they'd loaded the groceries in the Rabbit's trunk that she came back to herself. Beside him in the passenger seat, she blinked once, shook her head briskly and turned to him, face alight. "That's it!"

"Not exactly 'Eureka', but close enough," he observed.

"Tomorrow we'll have Hogarth announce that he's ordering an inventory of all the weapons. And if anything's missing, he's calling the police."

"Thus instilling panic in the hearts of our perpetrators, leading them to betray themselves."

"Right. Whoever we're dealing with here, they can't be anything else but amateurs. Their first reaction will be to sneak whatever else they've filched—besides the musket and those swords—back into the props department, most likely under cover of darkness-"

"—Where you and I'll be lying in wait. Excellent plan. Except…what makes you so sure they've any weapons left to turn in?"

"Instinct. So far they've managed to cause the most havoc with accidents involving weapons. Odds are they've got something spectacular up their sleeves for opening night."

"In front of a paying audience? Brazen of them, if you're on target."

"But it would fit the pattern. Haven't you noticed? They've gotten bolder with every attempt, and pulled in more and more of the actors. It's like they're building up to the climax. Or the big finish."

It was his turn to lose himself in his thoughts, but his sojourn was briefer than hers had been. "_The Greatest Show on Earth_," he said at the end of it.

"I'm sure Hogarth would like to think so, but aren't you exaggerating a little?"

"Charlton Heston, James Stewart, Cornel Wilde, Dorothy Lamour…well, it's Cecil DeMille, so the list goes on. Paramount, 1952. A pair of disgruntled former employees engineer a massive train accident in order to destroy a struggling circus." He caught Laura's look. "I realize it's not set in the theater, but it's about performers. And the parallels apply."

"What parallels?"

"One of the villains is motivated by business concerns. The other's a rejected suitor."

"Aubrey St. Mark," she said slowly. "Judd Owen."

They met each other's eyes. "Not so far off point after all, eh?" he replied.

He hated to break the spell—that exhilarating mix of intimacy and energy and instinctive understanding that could sometimes ignite between them when they were working in harmony like this. But they'd been loitering in the parking lot a long time, and dinner was getting warm or cold, depending on one's perspective. It was almost with reluctance that he turned the key in the Rabbit's ignition. Before he could back out of the parking space, Laura leaned over and soundly kissed his cheek.

Even now, ten months into their marriage, spontaneous demonstrations of affection from her weren't so frequent that he'd begun to treat them as commonplace. She was by nature a trifle reserved in that regard, was Laura. In response his face wreathed itself in a smile he was convinced looked as goofy as it felt.

"What was that for?" he asked.

"Do I have to have a reason?"

"Of course not, no. Not at all." Pulling out into traffic, he risked a quick glance at her. "But if I've done something right, perhaps I ought to know what it is, so I can make note of it for the future."

"A good day's work, a potential breakthrough in a tough case, and dinner alone with my husband," she countered. "Does life get any better than that?"

"Perhaps you should wait and see what we're having before you form any judgment."

"I know what we're having."

He telegraphed his skepticism by the most effective means he had at his disposal: his raised eyebrow.

"What, you don't think I was paying attention?"

"I think you were so wrapped up in this case you hardly noticed where you were going, let alone kept track of our menu."

"That shows how much you know. Ham and Cheddar with mustard on whole wheat for me….roast beef and Swiss with mayo on white for you. Peaches, grapes…spinach pasta salad…Robert Mondavi fumé blanc…and Devil Squares for dessert." In her brown gaze was a definite challenge. "Am I right?"

It certainly didn't take much to spur her competitive spirit, he reflected, not for the first time. She was as fully invested in the little contest as if there really were something at stake. Since there wasn't, he decided to give in gracefully. "As observant as you are beautiful. I stand corrected, Mrs. Steele."

Considering the reward-Laura's hand resting firmly and pleasurably on his thigh for the rest of the ride to the hotel—the concession was worth it.

It was only later that he realized there was one significant omission from the accurate list with which she'd bested him.

She hadn't mentioned that copy of _Parent Magazine_.

TO BE CONTINUED


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

**Author's note: **Emanuel School in Battersea and the first Shaftesbury Theater in London's West End are both real locations that could conceivably fit within the parameters of this story. The Shaftesbury, in fact, was destroyed by a bomb in 1941—making it all the more appropriate as the venue where Wycliffe met poor, doomed Lloyd and Lillian Chalmers in 1934.

-mg

The phone rang the following morning just as the Steeles were departing their motel room for Hambeth. The caller was Mildred, and she had a perplexing piece of business to discuss.

"A letter from the Earl of Claridge's lawyer," she explained to Remington, who'd happened to pick up the phone. "That fella who brought the deeds to Ashford Castle to you and Mrs. Steele on your honeymoon-"

"Roderick Smithers?"

"That's him. Arrived just now by express. It's a little strange, to say the least."

"Let's hear it."

She was right; it was odd. Smithers opened the missive by thanking Mr. Steele for his recent communication. He was also indebted for the information contained therein: to wit, Mr. Steele's transfer by deed of gift the previous year of the ownership of Ashford Castle to the servants who were in residence at the time. He, Smithers, hadn't heard of the transaction before now—

"He didn't?" interrupted Laura. She was standing at Remington's elbow so he could relay the conversation to her sentence by sentence. "Why not? I thought Smithers did the paperwork for you."

"Involve an Englishman? In a deal between Irishmen? Bite your tongue."

"So who did you get to draw up the deed of gift? Glen Creagh doesn't strike me as the kind of village where a lawyer would hang out his shingle."

He hesitated. "A cousin of Mikeline's who has some…ah…legal expertise."

"Of course. I might've known."

"Hey, do you two want to hear this, or not?" demanded Mildred.

Remington apologized. "Carry on, by all means."

Mildred resumed her reading. Smithers hadn't heard of the transaction before now, and pronounced it a shame that Mr. Steele hadn't seen fit to enlighten him. Because if Mr. Steele had done so at the outset, Smithers could've saved him a great deal of time and trouble by sharing a pertinent fact. Under the terms of the Earl of Claridge's will, and as set forth in the deed Mr. Steele had signed, Mr. Steele's share of the castle amounted only to a life interest. That meant he could no more give it away arbitrarily than the Earl could've bestowed on Mr. Steele the hereditary title of Lord Finross that attached to it. Nor could Mr. Steele pass the castle on to his children; upon his death, the property would revert to the earldom. In short, last year's sale was illegal and consequently invalid.

"What?" exclaimed Remington.

"You mean that white elephant's been hanging around our necks all this time, and we didn't know it?" exclaimed Laura.

"Not exactly," said Mildred. "Here's the good news. It isn't a white elephant anymore. Mikeline and the rest of 'em have turned it into a going concern. Smithers says there's a draft for sixty thousand pounds on deposit for you with a banker affiliated with his firm—the profit they turned last year, less their initial investment, shareholder dividends, salaries and expenses."

Five-and-a-half years of security and relative prosperity hadn't diminished Remington's reverence for large sums of easy money. "Sixty thousand pounds?" he breathed.

Laura quenched him with a gesture and took the phone from him. "Before you get too carried away, remember: there's still a hole in the middle of this scenario."

Just as they had been when confronted by a similar challenge a few days before, Remington and Mildred were silent.

"Who contacted Smithers about the deed in the first place?" There was the tiniest edge of exasperation in Laura's voice. "My guess is it's our bogus Remington Steele."

The real Remington—the one she'd made real by virtue of her belief in him, anyway—looked a little shell-shocked. "Why in blazes would he want to meddle with the castle?"

"Good question. Hopefully we're going to uncover the answer to it very soon. Mildred? How's that list of sightings coming along?"

"Two confirmed so far in the places that gal talked about in her letter—a symposium in Manhattan and a charity event in Trenton. The host from Manhattan even remembered what the guy looked like. Tall, dark hair, blue eyes-just like the chief."

"Not much to go on. They didn't happen to get a picture of him, did they?"

"I didn't think to ask." Even over miles and miles of telephone wire, Mildred's chagrin was audible. "Sorry, boss."

"It's okay, don't worry about it. But add that letter to Smithers to your list of incidents to investigate. And see if he'll send you a copy."

"Laura, I believe my head is beginning to spin," Remington announced as she hung up the phone.

"Mine, too. Too much coming at us from too many directions." She looked up at him in the kind of appeal she'd seldom allowed herself before they were married, but had become more willing to indulge in since. "What are we going to do? We can't handle owning the castle now any more than we could last year. And we may be stuck with it for life!"

"Never fear, my love, we'll think of something. Perhaps there are benefits to ownership we overlooked first time around." He drew her into his arms.

"What possible benefit could there be in a four-hundred-year-old castle five thousand miles away?"

"Sixty thousand pounds in income, for starters. More than the interest from the Chalmers trust would've been, if I hadn't signed it over to John Carmichael."

The twinkle in his eye and his relaxed smile were having a positive effect on her. "I suppose if you can't actually be Lord Finross, inheriting his castle might be the next best thing," she said.

"It's a pity, though, isn't it? Remington Chalmers Steele, Lord Finross. Lord Remington Finross…Lady Laura Finross. That last has rather an impressive sound to it. Eh?"

"If you say so, your lordship." She grasped his wrist, turning it for a glimpse of his watch. "We'd better get a move on. Hogarth's waiting for us."

On their arrival at Hambeth, they headed straight for the director's office, where Hogarth was indeed waiting for them at their request. They'd proposed their plan to him over the phone the preceding night, but failed to get him to commit. Now was the time to nail him down, as well persuade him to let them put it in motion that evening. Either subtle manipulation or outright arm-twisting would be the order of the day, depending on his mood.

But once again he defied their expectations by capitulating without an argument. "I've already left word for everyone to report to the rehearsal hall at nine-thirty sharp, no exceptions," he said. "You'll sit in, won't you?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," said Remington.

"What Mr. Steele means is that it's the perfect opportunity for observing everyone's reactions," Laura added. "If someone really is out to sabotage this theater, we may surprise them into giving themselves away."

As it happened, no one did. For the most part the cast received the announcement with equanimity that bordered on indifference. Whether it was from lack of guilt, or simply a great piece of acting on someone's part, the Steeles couldn't be sure. There was little to read in the faces gathered around the long rectangular table with them, save one.

That one belonged to Aubrey St. Mark. His dark eyes, fastened on Hogarth, held a gleam that could only be called malicious; he laughed under his breath. In irritation Hogarth swung around to him. "What's so funny?"

"You, Eddie," replied St. Mark. "You and your inspiring leadership. I can't tell you what a comfort it is to know you're at the helm, guiding us through our current crisis-"

"Now, now. No need to be insulting, Aubrey." From across the table Wycliffe was playing the role of peacemaker. "Edmund's doing the best he can under the circumstances."

Hogarth turned to his father. "When I need help from _you_, I'll ask for it," he snapped. And as Wycliffe flinched as if he'd been struck, Hogarth addressed the group in general: "This meeting's over. I'll see you at the Garrick at one."

In his dressing room with Remington half an hour later, Wycliffe made light of the incident—and excuses for his son. "We've never really been close, Edmund and I," he explained. "I was away so much when he was a boy, touring with road companies. Left him in his mother's care. The two of them didn't get on, so he was miserable. And he blames me for it." He sighed. "At times it seems he actually hates me, and there's nothing I can do to change his mind."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Remington replied.

While they spoke, Wycliffe was arranging a collection of tubes, jars and brushes on the dressing table in front of him. "Watch carefully, John. You're about to learn the secret of transforming your appearance so completely, not even Laura could guess your identity."

The statement tickled Remington's funny bone—if only Wycliffe knew how on target it was!-but he kept his mirth to himself. "I take it this is one of the peculiar areas of expertise you mentioned yesterday," he said instead.

"It is. In my own modest way."

"And is it part of what my grandfather taught you?"

There was a pause as Wycliffe lathered his face with cleanser and vigorously toweled it off. "A very small part. He'd no need for makeup tricks himself, you understand. He had an amazing gift for inhabiting a character through the way he used his face and body. He had only to step onstage…and suddenly he _was_ Lord Goring…Petruchio…Benedick…his movements, his inflections, his mannerisms…not a trace of Lloyd Chalmers remaining. I've never seen anything quite like it, then or since." From a small bottle he began to dab on a layer of opaque makeup with a sponge. "It's difficult to describe to someone who didn't experience it."

Remington couldn't help thinking of the various personas Daniel had adopted through the years. "I think I understand," he said. "He handed it down to my father. A little of it, anyway."

"So Daniel did make some sort of career of acting? I've always wondered."

"Minor theatricals. Not worth mentioning, compared to my grandfather's work, or yours."

"But he did initiate you into the family business."

"In a manner of speaking."

All in all it was as honest an answer as he could give under the circumstances, Remington thought. So why was his conscience so bloody uneasy? And why should the idea of lying to Wycliffe bother him in the first place? He, Remington, was becoming altogether too moral for his own good. Thank goodness Wycliffe chose that moment to turn the subject in another direction, rendering further deception unnecessary, at least for the time being.

"Look here," he was saying. He'd taken up a darker-toned foundation and was using it to contour his features. "See how this works? Correctly done, it'll make the cheeks hollow and the nose sharper. It wouldn't do at all for our First Gravedigger to resemble a healthy, well-fed American, even though Peter Wycliffe does."

For a little while conversation centered on the process, which saw Wycliffe create the illusion of wrinkles with dark pencil and demonstrate the application of scraggly whiskers with spirit of gum and patches of lifelike, coarse gray hair. Remington was familiar with the technique; it was how he'd worked around the drawbacks of blue eyes and fair skin in his quest to pass himself off as Paul Fabrini in the old days on the Riviera. But he took care to conceal his knowledge. Besides, compared to Wycliffe, his own attempts rated just slightly ahead of those of a rank amateur.

The finished product was the proof. "There you have it," Wycliffe said at last, swiveling away from the mirror. "What do you think?"

Remington surveyed him. The everyday, unadorned Wycliffe was clean-shaven, his skin smooth except for soft pouches and folds beneath his eyes and around his jaw that betokened old age. Now, by his own artful hand, he'd become a gaunt, ancient scarecrow with a beaky nose and deep-set eyes beneath unruly gray eyebrows. Even his smile was different, thanks to two strategically blackened molars. When he'd claimed that stage makeup was one of his particular specialties, he hadn't been kidding.

"Remarkable," Remington said. He meant it.

Wycliffe beamed. "Many thanks, John. There's still the wig to add, but the rest is what you'll see in actual performance. Oh, and one final detail to attend to." He closed his eyes, seeming to concentrate in silence for a moment. Then he said: " 'I like thy wit well, in good faith: the gallows does well; but how does it well? It does well to those who do ill: now thou dost ill to say the gallows is built stronger than the church: argal, the gallows may do well to thee. To 't again, come'."

The line was delivered in a treble that cracked and quivered—the voice of someone very old, and the opposite of Wycliffe's normal baritone. Familiar as Remington was with most English accents, he couldn't place the one Wycliffe was using. It made a convincing peasant of him whatever region it was from.

He responded with a little bow to Remington's spontaneous burst of applause. "Your talent for dead-on mimicry," Remington commented. "But whose voice was it you were imitating?"

"You won't believe it—a wonderful actress named Eleanor Forbes I worked with many years ago. She played The First Witch in the Scottish play for a whole season. I've played her myself since, borrowing from what I remember of Nellie's performance."

"You're joking."

" Oh, no." In the same falsetto Wycliffe added. " 'A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap, and mounch'd, and mounch'd, and mounch'd: -_Give me_, quoth I: _Aroint thee, witch_! the rump-fed runyon cries. Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master o' the Tiger: But in a sieve I'll thither sail, And, like a rat without a tail, I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do'."

They laughed together until Wycliffe's merriment faded. His eyes were very kind as he said, "There's another voice I'd like you to hear. One from your past. Laura said it would please you."

Try as he might afterward, Remington would never be able to recall the speech Wycliffe recited to him. He recognized neither the play it was from, nor the lines themselves. He wouldn't have cared if he had. It was the beautiful tenor Wycliffe had assumed that mattered. What had the writers of the books on the history of the English stage called it, the ones to whom Alix Edwards had directed him and Laura last year? "Fine and flexible." Heedless of the tears that were burning unshed in his eyes, he listened, enthralled.

At the end of it Wycliffe confirmed what instinct had already told Remington. "Lloyd Chalmers," he said gently.

An awkward interval ensued during which Remington fought to hold himself together. Suddenly he missed Daniel with an intensity he hadn't experienced since the first days after his father's death. And on the heels of that first wave of longing followed one for Laura, her presence beside him a source of strength, her hand in his the anchor that would keep him from falling apart.

"John? Are you all right?" asked Wycliffe.

Remington hesitated before answering. To tell the truth, he was grappling with an unaccountable urge to pour it out, the closely guarded secret of his boyhood to which no one alive but Laura had access. Rather astonishing; it was rare for anyone to gain his trust to such an extent, let alone on short acquaintance. But there was something about Wycliffe that had endeared him to Remington from the very start. His link to Remington's family? His candor? His ability to laugh at himself? Most likely all of it combined. It put Remington in a position he never dreamed he'd be in, opening his mouth, ready to spill the details of his years of as an orphan, his fruitless searches for his real father, the tardy revelation of Daniel's identity and the consequent unfilled gaps in his, Remington's, knowledge of their family history. What a blessing it would be to share it with this man who'd been acquainted with them all…

But then the impulse receded, trumped by his lifelong habit of reticence. Half relieved, half rueful, he said only, "Daniel never talked about any of them, his parents…his sisters. And he died last year. I didn't find out they existed until the reading of his will."

"Hard on you." The circumstances must surely have struck him as odd, but Wycliffe refrained from pointing it out. There was, however, no mistaking the paternal sympathy in his gaze.

"A bit. I was wondering-"

"—Whether I would tell you about them?"

"Please. If it's not too much trouble."

"I'd be honored. Where would you like me to start?"

It was a question that hadn't so much as occurred to Remington. Where, indeed? But he didn't have to mull it over very long. The memory of his first sight of them flooded in on him: the album in Alix Edwards' office and the group photograph it contained. Every member of the Chalmers family smiling into the camera, one of Lloyd's arms around Daniel, his other hand on his wife's shoulder, Lillian's arm linked with that of her older daughter and namesake, the youngest child, Peggy, curled on the floor at her father's feet, head against her mother's knee. The mutual affection that was obvious despite the fifty-year gulf that separated Remington from them.

He described the picture to Wycliffe. "Of course there's a temptation for me to idealize them, or imagine something that isn't really there." A weird nervousness had set his heart to pounding and his palms to sweating; he stopped to inhale a deep breath. "Daniel's solicitor told me they got on well together. Splendidly, she said. It is true? Were they as fond of each other as they looked?"

Wycliffe didn't respond immediately. Several seconds went by as he stared into space. Then he began: "I was eighteen the year I landed at the Shaftesbury Theatre and met Lloyd Chalmers. Though I daresay 'met' is too generous a term to apply what went on between us. It was a little before Christmas…he had the lead in _Lady Dovedale's Dilemma_. I was serving as company charwoman, more or less, emptying the dustbins, sweeping the floors, that sort of thing. He was always very kind; it wasn't in his nature to be otherwise. But at that juncture he didn't even know my name.

"One afternoon—this would've been near the Feast of St. Thomas, which was the way I told time in those days—he was in his dressing room after rehearsal, and your grandmother was with him. I remember distinctly because it was the first time I saw her, and I was a little…overwhelmed. Even in her late thirties, which she must've been, and with three teen-aged children, Lillian Chalmers was a beautiful woman.

"Well, I was hanging about in the background, finishing some menial chore or another, when suddenly the door burst open. In strode a very angry gentleman. Very important-looking, too, in his coat and waistcoat and gold watch chain. And who should he have by the ear but your father.

"I didn't know what to make of it. Here was a boy, my age, as I thought, though I'd discover later he was but sixteen, marched before his parents like a lad just out of the nursery! And the man who had him in his grip was so very big, and so very angry! I'd have been shaking in my boots, if it was me. Not Daniel. He was cool as a cucumber and bold as brass.

"I never did hear what the fuss was about, only that he'd pulled a prank at school. He was at Emanuel College in Battersea, I was to learn. A boarder, which was unusual, since their home in Chelsea wasn't far away. The angry man was his music master. He declared in no uncertain terms that in future Daniel would darken the door of the Chapel Choir over his dead body. Meanwhile he was consigning the reprobate youth to the custody of parents. 'I wish you joy of him,' he added, in a tone that indicated he was convinced they'd have anything but.

"After he'd gone, the dressing room grew very quiet. I noticed then that a marked change had come over Daniel. The swagger, the backtalk—there wasn't a trace of them left. He stood with his eyes on the floor, clasping and unclasping his hands before him, clearly a very miserable, very shame-faced boy.

"I did what Daniel was obviously scared to, stole a look at your grandfather. Lloyd had risen from his chair with Lillian at his side to face his son. But what I expected to see…what my own experience had taught me to expect…wasn't there. No towering rage, no clenched fist ready to strike. There was nothing but the look he gave Daniel. Disappointment and sorrow, plain as day. It wasn't even directed at me, yet it cut exceeding sharp. I could only imagine how Daniel must've felt.

"When Lloyd finally spoke, it was very gravely. 'Did you hear what Mr. Cuthbert's accused you of, Daniel?'

" 'Yes, sir,' Daniel whispered."

Probably without realizing it, Wycliffe was acting out both halves of the dialogue, altering his voice, varying his gestures. Remington's eyes widened in wonder. It was like looking on while an authentic piece of the past replayed itself in front of him. Afraid the moment would shatter at the slightest interruption, he scarcely dared to breathe.

But Wycliffe was too intent on his vision to be distracted. He continued: "Llloyd said, 'Do you own up to it?'

" 'I do, sir.'

" 'Remember what I told you, the punishment you're to expect if it happened again?'

" 'Yes, sir.'

" 'You've grieved us sorely with this business, Daniel.'

"Daniel's whisper was so low I could barely hear it. 'I'm sorry, sir.'

"Lloyd took a step towards him then. Here it was, I thought, the violence I'd anticipated earlier, not omitted after all, but only delayed. I was swept with such a feeling of disappointment, I almost bent double. I cringed for Daniel, waiting for the blow to fall.

"Instead Lloyd laid a hand on his son's shoulder. 'We'll say no more about it for the time being,' he said. For the first time he relaxed his severity. 'Now see your mother safely home.'

"I watched Daniel take Lillian's arm and look straight at his father. His eyes were full of tears, but he squared his shoulders anyway. 'Thank you, Father,' he said.

"And suddenly…I understood."

Wycliffe stopped and gazed at Remington as if trying to put him back into focus. His smile, when it appeared, trembled a little.

"That," he said, "was the day I learned how a proper father loves his son."

* * *

"…and then he told me he couldn't explain why Daniel kept our family a secret," Remington said to Laura. "But he guessed it had to do with the way they died. An awful tragedy, he called it. And said it wasn't so surprising, the fact that Daniel buried his memories for the rest of his life."

The Steeles had hidden themselves a few hours earlier in the centermost of the three rooms that made up the props department, the one that was home to the enormous collection of miscellany. If offered an excellent vantage point of both the door that opened into the office from the hallway and the emergency exit in the weapons gallery. If Laura's plan worked, and the thieves attempted to break in to replace the remaining items they'd stolen, there was no possible way they could escape detection.

They'd waited until dusk to stake out their position and by now full darkness reigned. The props department persisted quiet and still. To pass the time, Remington had decided to share his impressions from that afternoon with Laura. No need to worry that the conversation would interfere with their surveillance; it was one of the skills they possessed in equal measure, the ability to drop the personal on a dime when the professional demanded their attention.

She'd listened to the entire account exactly as he would've predicted, with the softness and compassion on which he'd come to depend. He could even pinpoint their origins. A working class street in Dublin; a small but comfortable cottage. They'd lingered across the street from it while he summoned up the courage to knock and ask for its owner, Patrick O'Rourke. In a few short minutes—if O'Rourke was home, if he was the man Steele was looking for—Steele might at last learn his real name.

What stood out most starkly about the episode wasn't his fear that he'd gotten his hopes up for no reason, nor yet the eventual crushing of the same. It was the look in Laura's dark eyes beforehand, telling him without words that regardless of what happened, he wasn't alone and wouldn't be ever again. And it was her touch afterward, as well. Emerging from O'Rourke's house, his expectations of failure fulfilled—when in his history had they _not_ been?—he'd reported the outcome in two words: 'Dead end.' Whereupon she'd wrapped warm, steady hands around his arm for the walk to their hired car. And had sat close beside him en route to the airport so he could reach out for her whenever he needed to. If he hadn't already lost his heart to her two years earlier, he'd have laid it at her feet without a second thought.

Now she responded to the statement he'd just made with a nod of agreement. "I think Wycliffe's probably right. Alix Edwards had the same sense about Daniel. Remember? He could never talk about his grief because he was afraid to. Let the genie out of the bottle and it might never go back in again." She paused to search his face. "What's wrong, Mr. Steele?"

"…Nothing. Only I've been an unpardonable ass over this."

"Huh?"

"All these months, Laura-ever since we found out about my family-I've blamed Daniel for keeping the secret…dying without telling me about them. Think how different things would've been, if I'd known…if he'd only trusted me."

"Instead he treated you like a stranger he had to hide from. You said that in Menton, our first visit to the villa. You were so angry at him."

"I had good reason. Or so I thought. But what Wycliffe told me today…It's changed my perspective."

She stroked his hand. "A change for the better?"

"Ah, that I'm not sure yet." As usual, he had some groping to do mentally before he could express it aloud. But how good it was to be able to trust that she'd wait until he found the words, and wouldn't criticize or laugh at him if they missed the mark!

Finally he said: "It was like a light shining on me, I suppose. Showing me what I am. I've been trapped in self pity all this time, resenting everything I missed, and I never realized it."

"I haven't seen any sign of it."

"It's true, though. What I should've kept in mind…reminded myself every day, if I had to…is everything I missed was everything Daniel lost. Wycliffe brought that home to me."

"They do sound like a wonderful family, the way he told it." She glanced down at his hand, the one whose fingers she'd twined through hers, and then back up at him. "They would've loved you, you know? Just as much as Daniel did."

"Now you're speculating, Mrs. Steele." It was an attempt to tease her, to inject a lighter note into a mood that threatened to segue into pathos.

But she wanted to be serious. "And I think…they would want you to forgive Daniel."

"Would they?"

"If only for yourself. So you can look back at the twenty years you spent with him, and be grateful that you really did have your father, even though you never got to call him by that name."

He looked at her, the light in her eyes—love light, the sentimental side of him wanted to call it—and how intent she was on gaining the point because she wanted the very best for him. And all at once gut instinct was telling him that here it was within his grasp, the passport into the last swath of forbidden emotional territory that lay between him and Laura. He had simply to seize this fleeting advantage.

And bring up Jack Holt.

The idea brought with it a definite uneasiness. Asking about Laura's father was a powder keg, liable to spark an explosion the likes of which the Steeles had never experienced, not even on that horrendous afternoon in Menton when Laura had pushed him beyond endurance to change his name. It frightened Remington to contemplate it. There. He'd admitted it.

But didn't his candidness over Daniel deserve a commensurate dropping of the guard from her? Wasn't turnabout fair play, at least where she came from?

As the cliché went, he wouldn't know unless he tried.

So he said, very gently: "What about you then, Laura?"

"Me?"

"You. And your father."

Immediately the wall went up. That wasn't a cliché; he could actually trace its progress in physical terms. The warmth drained from her, hardening her cheek and jaw, leaving her distant and businesslike. "What about us?"

He almost balked at continuing. Almost. "Well, for starters," he said. "Why haven't you ever tried to find him?"

"Define 'find him'."

"You don't need me to catalog your detective skills, my love. You know you're the best in the business. So good you could've located him years ago, if you'd cared to."

"Or maybe he just isn't lost."

This robbed him of his momentum, but not for long. "Then where is he?"

"Fresno."

"_Fresno_?"

"Fresno. The post office delivered child support checks every month until I turned eighteen, Remington. Unlike you and Mildred, it occurred to me fairly early on to check the return address."

She was holding herself stiffly now, arms crossed as if to ward off further questions. He'd been right to hesitate to broach the subject; this was bloody difficult. It would require all the finesse he possessed to play it out to the end.

"So all these years, he's been so close?"

"Obviously."

"Yet you've never called? Or written? Never visited? And never once regretted it?"

There was a silence of some duration.

"Laura."

She was staring at a point on the opposite wall; experience warned him that she was resorting to the total cold-shoulder treatment, a game at which she was expert. Then she said in that level, dispassionate voice, "Three months into my apprenticeship at Havenhurst, I got my first solo field work assignment. Undetected surveillance. The catch was, I had to stake out someone who'd recognize me if they spotted me. It was Havenhurst's yardstick for measuring success or failure. So I…chose my father."

Remington winced. Her face was as empty of emotion as her voice; that was sufficient to persuade him that he'd make a colossal blunder in badgering her. Unfortunately it was far too late to take it back. Guilt-stricken, remorseful, abashed: there was no ready description for his state of mind. And there was no remedy for it but to maintain his gaze on her expressionless profile, listen to her recount the incident he'd insisting on dredging up…and ache for her.

After all, he'd asked for it.

"I was supposed to observe for forty-eight hours and keep track of his activities in an hourly log," she explained. "I could take a bathroom break every six hours, and six consecutive hours for sleeping, whatever part of the day I wanted to schedule them. I picked eleven at night. I mean…my father was a fifty-three-year-old accountant. What would he possibly have to do at that hour but sleep?

"I drove up in the nineteen-seventy-one Gremlin I bought right after I got out of high school. Ever ridden in one? No? Well, the Rabbit is the lap of luxury compared to that old Gremlin, Mr. Steele. I didn't sell it 'til eighty-two—right before you popped into my life, come to think of it. It was the perfect car for staking out a suburban street like my father's, not so decrepit that the neighbors would call the cops, not so flashy it would call attention to itself."

For the first time Remington ventured a question. "Were you in disguise?"

She shook her head. "Not so much. Baseball cap…sunglasses…pony tail. My father's never seen me with long hair, so it seemed like a good way to go."

"Ah."

"Anyway… I got there about six on a Saturday morning. By the time I'd clocked two hours I was congratulating myself it would be a piece of cake. The street was slowly waking up, but there was nothing going on at my father's house. Nice house, by the way. Kind of big, considering it was just him and his wife, but-"

Another bombshell. By now he was beginning to wonder if it was useless to keep count of them. Perhaps he should resign himself to an atmosphere of general instability, and leave it at that. "Hold on a minute, hold on. Your father's remarried?"

"When I was twenty-one. And then, around ten I guess it was, the front door opened. He came out."

She glanced over at Remington, every inch of her bound tight in that patented Laura Steele self-control. "With two boys in Little League uniforms," she said.

He looked into her tearless eyes—that other Laura Steele trademark. And understood the worst was still to come. His lesson on leaving well enough alone was going to be an especially bitter one, it seemed.

"My stepbrothers, I found out later," she calmly went on. "Jason and Justin. Thirteen and eleven. Third baseman and right fielder. Funny, because when I was little, he told me he didn't need a son. I was enough for him, he said. So much for daddy's girl, and all the other lies he told me, huh?"

He'd have taken her in his arms then and held her until she relaxed into naturalness again, whether he was welcome to or not. Hadn't she done something similar for him the very first night they spent at the Villa Montreuil, when they'd arrived to find that his father had swept the place clean of any evidence of his tenancy? Tenderly overlooked his rebuff, and comforted him in spite of it?

But he never got the chance. For with a drawn-out squeak of its hinges, the emergency door from the weapons room began to swing outwards in a slow arc. What was even more interesting was the fact the alarm hadn't been tripped.

Instantly the Steeles sprang into action. Quicker on her feet than Remington, Laura slipped out of their hiding place and moved to their right, making a circuit of the room that would carry her unnoticed to the weapons room entrance. He trailed her as closely as he could, though he had to steel himself to ignore the stiffness in his bad ankle to do it.

A black-clad figure of medium height appeared in the doorway. There it paused, probably to get its bearings. A slender shaft of light streamed from the flashlight in its left hand. In its right was a satchel.

Purloined weapons, no doubt. Laura's hunch was on target.

By now she'd arrived at their destination and was crouching low, taking in every move the prowler made. He'd just about joined her when from elsewhere within the building came a loud "boom!"

The flashlight and valise hit the floor with a crash. The figure whirled and ran; Laura dashed in its wake. "Hold it!" she exclaimed.

Cursing his disability under his breath, Remington pushed off after her. He hadn't gone more than a few steps when he heard it. The crack of gunfire. One shot, and then another.

"Laura!" he shouted. Panic had temporarily usurped the importance of concealing their real names. "_Laura_!"

Even outdoors and with his eyes accustomed to the darkness it was difficult to tell what was happening. In an agony of suspense he stood there, checking the urge to call out lest he give himself away, straining to see. Where the _hell_ was Laura-?

His ears caught the cough and sputter of a car engine and the squeal of tires peeling away. A few seconds more, and a runner was headed in his direction. In an immensity of relief he recognized Laura's long-legged stride.

She didn't altogether collide with him, but near enough to make him stagger a little. "Mr. Steele?"

"It's me." He was running his hands over her lightly for reassurance that she was unhurt—a favor he'd seldom asked for before they were married, but had begun to claim with more confidence since. "Okay?" he demanded. "Yes?"

She'd become quicker to grant it, too, leaning against him for a beat or two. "Fine."

"Who was it? Could you see?"

" 'They', Mr. Steele. There were two of them. Our prowler and the driver of the getaway car."

"Did you get a look at either of them?

"They drove off before I could get to them. And I was too far away to read the license plate number."

"Blast. Our cover possibly blown and almost four hours wasted, not to mention an ingenious plan. And this is what we have to show for it?"

"Maybe." Laura gave him a grim smile. "Maybe not. At least we learned two things we didn't know before."

"There are two of them in on it?"

"That, too. But it also proves the so-called curse is exactly what Andy Treacher said it is: nothing but a crock."

"And?"

"Whatever they hope to accomplish with the sabotage, they're willing to kill for it."

TO BE CONTINUED


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

**Author's note: **for an idea of the "Remington Steele" smile described below, see the motel room scene in season four's "Premium Steele" and the scene in the rescue mission in "Beg, Borrow or Steele", same season. ~ MG

* * *

The valise contained four short swords, a collection of switchblades and half a dozen twentieth-century side arms. Remington and Laura were present in Hogarth's office the next morning when Max Yarborough unpacked them preparatory to comparing them with a meticulous, newly-updated inventory. "They're ours, sure enough," said the props manager. "Things we've had since the very beginning of Hambeth. That's why we didn't know they went missing." He folded the inventory and set it to the side.

Laura glanced from him to Hogarth. "I think you've skipped a step here. Why wouldn't you have known?"

"Because they've been in cold storage for a couple years now," Hogarth replied. "Right, Max?"

"January of eighty-seven. We used them in _Romeo and Juliet_, the one you set in Chicagoland in the 'twenties, and then locked them up for good."

"Cold storage?" asked Remington.

"It's what we call the old cellars underneath this place. Jens Hedegaard—the man who founded Hambeth—wanted the Garrick built directly over the site of his family's farm. An eccentric idea, but the cellars come in handy," said Hogarth.

"What are they used for?" This time Remington was addressing Yarborough.

"It's where old theater junk goes to die. Props, costumes, set pieces—anything we're ready to get rid of, we store until the trustees get around to deciding what to do with it. Sometimes it takes them a while."

Laura indicated the contents of the valise. "Was there a problem that made you decide to junk them?"

"They were donated second hand…we bought some replacements. They're all in working order, though."

Remington had been eyeing the pistols, and now he reached for one of them. "May I?"

Untutored as he was, he'd spotted a featured that puzzled him: the safety and slide releases seemed to be extended to both sides of the pistol. After examining it fruitlessly for a moment or two, he beckoned to Laura. "Mrs. Steele?"

"They're ambidextrous controls," she explained in an undertone, recognizing them immediately. "A gun designed for a southpaw. A left-handed shooter, like me."

"But you don't require a special gun."

"Because I've trained myself to handle a regular safety. Not every lefty can." Aloud she said, "Max, you said these were last used a year ago in a production of _Romeo and Juliet_ ?"

"That's right. Guns and knives instead of swords. The Montagues had the guns."

"And did you assign a gun to each of the actors? Or did they pick one at random before every performance?"

A man of few words, Yarborough picked up a second pistol and flipped it so the bottom of the butt was visible, displaying a neat little tag. _Benvolio. _The others bore similar labels; the one Remington held was designated _Mercutio._

"Okay, Max." It was a dismissal from Hogarth. "Don't say a word to anyone about this. And pretend you don't know who Mr. and Mrs. Steele really are unless I tell you otherwise."

He waited until Yarborough left before turning to the Steeles. "Well? Where do we go from here?"

It was the same question Remington had posed to Laura on the way back to their motel from the aborted surveillance. "Now that we've lost the element of surprise, and I've given away your real name into the bargain," he'd added.

"I'm not so sure you did."

"And how did you draw that conclusion?"

"Simple. If it was too dark for us to tell who they are, it was too dark for them to tell who we are. And who knows what they actually heard in the heat of the moment?"

"I wonder what it was that spooked them?"

"Who knows? Probably Hogarth will have an idea. How tall would you say the intruder was, Mr. Steele?"

"Five seven. Five eight at the most."

"I agree. Which, by process of elimination, would mean it wasn't Treacher or St. Mark. Ford, Kennicot or Glasslough, either.

"Leaving Owen, Paige, and Morwenna Pascoe. Mrs. Hogarth….Oliver Arundel."

"You think Arundel's a suspect?"

"At this point I'd rather we didn't rule him out. He does dislike Hogarth. And it cost him a pretty penny to gain the right to walk away after they quarreled. Although…" Remington had fallen silent for a space, reflecting. "It seems to me we've jumped to an unwarranted conclusion, Laura."

"Come again?"

"Assuming the person we saw tonight is one of the actors—or connected in some way with Hambeth. It could be our troublemaker has recruited someone from the outside to help him or her."

"And sent the accomplice to drop off the weapons while he waited in the car?"

"Far less risk of exposure, or being recognized."

"Why bother to go that route when he has his pick of like-minded grumblers just itching to get back at Hogarth?"

"I'm not saying I've hit on the solution, only that it's worth considering. Eh?"

She had considered it. "Actually it's not a bad theory. What made you think of it?"

"In _The Greatest Show on Earth_, the elephant trainer plans a robbery with the help of what you might call a civilian."

"It's something to toss in the mix, anyway. In the meantime I'm glad we've got physical evidence to show Hogarth, for a change."

And that was how Laura responded to the executive director's demand for an update, withholding information about the non-operational alarm until Remington had had a chance to examine it more closely. "As soon as we're done here, Mr. Steele's taking the weapons and the bag to the nearest available crime lab to see if they can come up with any fingerprints." She held out a Baggie for his inspection. "Along with this."

He gazed through the clear plastic at the object inside. "What is it?"

"Spent bullet casing. One of the two souvenirs our thieves left us with last night."

"They shot at you?" Hogarth was looking more uneasy than they'd ever seen him.

"Hazard of the trade. Amateurish on their part, since the first rule of marksmanship is you have to be able to see what you're aiming at. We don't believe it's an immediate threat to the cast."

"Mind you, analyzing the shell won't tell us who the shooter is," added Remington. "But it will determine the type of gun. First step in the right direction and all that."

Laura smoothly interposed her next line. "Meanwhile I'll be working with the actors, checking their alibis for last night—a process Mr. Steele likes to call 'winkling'." She and Remington exchanged a quick smile.

Either Hogarth didn't appreciate their little in-joke, or he was in no mood for levity in general. "You seem amazingly relaxed about all of it," he said sharply. "I hope it means you feel you're getting close to putting an end to the craziness. The last thing we need is to lose someone the way we almost lost Rhys."

"Of course we are." Remington switched to reassurance mode, persuasive and confident. "Last night proved beyond a doubt that whatever we're up against, it isn't supernatural forces. Fallible human beings, just like you and me. And human beings slip up. It's a given. Ah, yes, the resolution's within sight, and a tidy and expeditious one, at that. You can depend on it."

With their final question mark laid to rest by Hogarth—the sound that had reverberated through the props department last night was an idiosyncrasy of the HVAC system, triggered by the open door—the Steeles took their leave. "I hate it when you do that," Laura remarked as soon as they'd advanced a safe distance down the hallway.

"What?"

"Talk like that. Like it's all in the bag, we're just waiting for the ultimate piece of the puzzle to fall into place, when you know damn well what we've really got is a hatful of clues and a boatload of suspects, none of them necessarily connected to each other."

"Merely trying to maintain our client's faith in us, Laura. Not to mention our reputation."

"I know. But did you have to be so—so-"

"Plucky?" he suggested. "Inspiring?"

"I was going to say brash. And impulsive."

"I thought it was one of the things you loved about me, my spontaneity, my cock-eyed optimism-"

"I do, when it isn't annoying the hell out of me." They'd reached the point where they needed to part ways; she turned to him, lifting her face for his good-bye kiss. "I'm off to visit St. Mark. Wish me luck, Mr. Monkley. And don't go making any more promises we're not sure we can keep."

Overflowing with quiet thankfulness, Remington watched her out of sight. Really the feeling was a holdover from the night before. From the moment she'd confessed the painful episode with her father, he'd dreaded the battle he was convinced loomed ahead, one Laura would wage against him using prickliness and distance. But it had never materialized. She hadn't shut him down; she hadn't shut him out. It was possible that in a few days, a week, he could ask for details that would help him understand what had really happened. Perhaps she would even let him be what she had so often been for him: the one person with whom she could figuratively expose the buried pain to sunlight and air. Surprising, how eager he was for the opportunity to support her.

Not that a few misgivings hadn't assailed him upon their return to the Hamlet Motel. She hadn't acted upset during the drive-but she'd jumped for the bathroom as soon as they arrived and firmly closed the door behind her, leaving him to stare after her with furrowed brow. And didn't she double the length of time she normally spent in the shower? By the time it was his turn, the call of nature was so strong he'd no choice but to obey it. Once inside he'd made a concerted effort to cut his own grooming ritual short, but in the end it hadn't availed him much. He'd opened the door to find lights out, the bed turned down, and Laura a slim shape under the covers with her back to him. She hadn't moved an inch or made a sound when he slid in beside her. Asleep, or only pretending to be? He couldn't tell. But it didn't take a big leap to guess it was a deliberate maneuver to avoid more questions from him.

That was fine; he'd a better idea in mind, anyway. He'd spooned behind her and wrapped his arms around her, relishing as he usually did how well they fit together. It was a far different sensation from the fleeting sensual pleasure he'd got from the buxom bedmates of his cluttered past. Sexy, yes…but never _just_ sex. Unlike the others, Laura had the power to rouse in him an impulse towards protectiveness that went hand-in-hand with desire. His body enveloping hers; the certainty that he had her safe, since a threat of any description would have to go through him to get to her. The image of himself as her bulwark, sheltering her whether she believed she needed it or not, was an endless source of satisfaction to him.

That was why he'd laid there, suspecting she was shamming, not terribly concerned if she was. The steadfastness of his embrace, his hand occasionally stroking her hair: they were shorthand for what he wasn't adept enough to communicate verbally. It was a language Laura had come to understand, if only a little. And tonight it was possible it would reach her on some level where his stumbling, fumbling words would've failed to.

Time had slipped by, an interlude whose length he didn't measure, when at last Laura stirred against him. He'd known then that she hadn't been asleep. And he'd known that she knew he knew.

She'd said: "Good night, Mr. Steele." It was her softest voice, very nearly a whisper. In it was the faint thread of vulnerability she allowed no one but him to hear.

He'd hesitated before answering. It had seemed to him a tenuous moment, the kind the slightest misstep could irreversibly ruin. The trick was not to make too much of it. Otherwise its sweetness would slip from his grasp.

So he'd touched his lips to her hair and exhaled a long sigh. "Good night, my love," he'd replied.

Crossing the Hambeth parking lot to the Rabbit, valise in hand, he was glad he'd listened to his instincts. The low-key approach had worked. This morning Laura was thoroughly herself, nothing resentful or off-putting in her behavior. By an act of sheer will, she'd put last night behind her, just as she must've done when the blow had first fallen. A lesser woman would've been warped or embittered by that blow. His Laura, by contrast, had emerged the stronger for it. To be sure it had left a scar, but she'd swept aside the fragments of her shattered illusions and gone on to build a successful life and career. And he was lost in admiration of her spirit.

Thank God their child would never have to suffer the way she had.

A passing thought, at first. But in the few minutes it took him to pick up Highway 101, it was well on its way to becoming a fixed resolution. Agreed, he wasn't the caliber of man she deserved—but he'd pledged his faithfulness to her, and come hell or high water, he'd stick to that pledge. No anxieties for her or their baby that one night, daddy might opt never to come home again; no heartbreaking discoveries like the one Laura had made lurking in their shared future. Her family history wouldn't repeat itself. Not if he had any say in the matter, it wouldn't.

Or, as he'd expressed it to her months ago in a verbal rough-and-tumble at the Freidlich Sensitivity Spa: He wasn't her father. He wasn't the man who'd left her mother.

He'd prove himself a better husband than Jack Holt…_and_ a better father.

All he needed was for Laura to give him the chance.

* * *

It was a cautiously optimistic Laura who knocked at the door of Diana Bell's dressing room at a little before eleven o'clock.

She'd spent the previous two-and-a-half hours canvassing the rest of the company, and she was pleased with the results. Though she hadn't gotten around to all the actors, she'd managed to hit the major suspects, and they'd been more cooperative than she'd expected. By now she had a good idea where they were at roughly eight o'clock last night-or at least where they wanted her to think they were. Better than that, no one had brushed her off or refused to speak with her.

Not even St. Mark, who'd borne with her more patiently than he ever had before. The carefully crafted question she'd put to him was, did he have a special routine or ritual he observed the night before a dress rehearsal? What was it, and did it achieve the results he was after?

If she hadn't seen it for herself, she would never have believed he'd actually smiled at her. "What makes you ask?" he said.

"It's logical to assume someone who respects theater tradition as much as you might have some private traditions of his own."

"Very sensible. And a credit to your training."

Laura's eyebrows wanted to shoot up upward in disbelief at the idea of St. Mark complimenting her. She'd resisted the urge.

"I hear good reports about you," he'd continued. "Miss Bell is very impressed by your quickness and willingness to learn. She thinks you may have the makings of a fine actress."

"That's good to know. Thank you. You were telling me how you prepared for this afternoon-?"

"Nothing special. Had dinner with a friend, turned in early. Plenty of rest is one of the keys to a good performance, even in dress rehearsal."

"Oh." Beneath a veneer of perplexity, Laura was assessing his expression and tone of voice. Affable, expansive, he was as far from the St. Mark of their previous encounters as it was possible to get. Something extraordinary must've happened to generate his good mood; would he drop a clue that would help her figure out what?

"You sound surprised, Miss Randall," he'd said.

"I guess I was expecting something…different." In more ways than one, she'd added, but only to herself.

He'd begun to laugh—not an echo of yesterday's spiteful chuckle at Hogarth's expense, but a genuine laugh that played up his attractiveness to distinct advantage. "Communing with Shakespeare? Working myself into the proper ghostly outlook on my character?"

St. Mark, teasing her! She hadn't realized he had it in him. Responding with a sheepish smile had seemed to be in order, so Laura manufactured one for him. "Something like that."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but no. The Ghost is a fairly simple character to play. Justice, retribution, those are his principal motivations. Easy to tap into, for someone of my experience."

_There_ was the St. Mark she was familiar with, complete with an ambiguous remark that stuck in her head as she moved on to the next impromptu interview, and then the next. Was St. Mark talking about his character, or something else? Polly Cavanaugh, the girl Hogarth had stolen from him thirty years ago, maybe? His rejection by the Hambeth trustees in favor of Hogarth for the director's position? His demotion from the role of Claudius? And why would any of those situations provoke high spirits from him, unless he had plans in hand for getting his own back?

She couldn't help it. His professed respect for the curse notwithstanding, instinct was telling her the presumption of guilt rested on St. Mark. Especially if his alibi didn't hold up…

It was funny, because as the scales of probability weighted towards St. Mark, they lightened towards some of the others. It seemed Judd Owen and Lachlan Ford had attended a basketball game at the local high school—a little out of character for both men, in Laura's opinion, but a claim easy to verify. Denis Paige and Baird Kennicott had dined with their families. Morwenna Pascoe had had her hair cut. Only Simon Glasslough and Andy Treacher had professed to periods of time that couldn't be accounted for by witnesses. On the other hand, neither fit the mold of co-conspirators.

Which led Laura to Diana Bell.

There was no response to her initial knock on Bell's door, so she tried again. "Diana? It's Terry."

From inside came a hurried rustling sound Laura couldn't identify, followed by Bell's reply. "Come in."

The suppressed misery Laura thought she'd detected in Bell's voice was confirmed by the sight of the other woman's swollen eyelids and reddened nose. Prompted by a wave of compassion, Laura crossed to her side. "What's wrong? Aren't you feeling well?"

"Oh…No." Bell was groping blindly for the tissues on her dressing table; Laura plucked one from the box and tucked it into her hand. "I mean yes…I'm all right."

"Anything I can do?"

Bell's struggle to pull herself together was nowhere so evident as in her attempt to smile. It was a piteous, artificial affair. "I just…Thank you, no. I've just had a little…bad news…"

"From home? From London?"

"No…oh, no."

That meant nothing bad had befallen Bell's daughter or grandson. At least Laura hoped it was the case. She dragged an empty chair over to face Bell, sat and gently grasped her hands. "I'm a pretty good listener, if you need to talk."

At first it appeared Bell wouldn't—or couldn't-accept the offer. Laura didn't press her. But then Bell said, in a voice that retained its quiver, "Have you and your husband been married long?"

"Almost a year. We were together four years before that."

"He seems to be a good man, and a kind one."

"Thank you. He is."

"I don't know if anyone's ever told you, but the way he looks at you is absolutely adorable. It's as if you're the only woman in the room."

"That's a switch," Laura said dryly. "Usually it's more like I'm about to drive him round the bend."

This elicited a weak chuckle from Bell that ended almost as soon as it began. It was followed by a sigh. "We've been married a long time, Edmund and I. Twenty-eight years."

"That's wonderful. Quite an accomplishment nowadays."

"I suppose it is…But then it's how we were raised. Marriages were meant to last, for better or worse." Her shaky composure crumbled again; freeing her hands from Laura's clasp, she raised them to her face. "What a shame they never warned us how horrible the 'worse' could be…"

Impulsively Laura slipped her arms around the older woman in a firm hug. At the outset Bell surrendered to it, even leaned her head on Laura's shoulder. But it was for no more than a minute or two. Dabbing at her eyes with the tissue, she straightened and tried to laugh it off—a poor performance that fooled neither of them, Laura thought.

"I'm all right, really," Bell said. "Silly of me to give way like that. You're a sweet girl to be so concerned."

It was obvious she wished Laura would go, but was too mindful of her manners to ask outright. The haste with which she agreed to Laura's suggestion that they forego her training session was the proof. "I'll see you at rehearsal, then," she said, and closed the door behind her, quietly but with finality.

The abruptness of Bell's dismissal didn't bother Laura in the least. She, too, would've chosen to lick her wounds in private rather than become an object of sympathy, no matter how warm or well-intentioned it might be. Recognizing the decision for what it was, she had to respect it.

Besides, there was another dimension to consider. Bell's distress and St. Mark's good mood: the contrast was too sharp, the timing too coincidental, to pass them off as isolated incidents. Somehow the two were related. Laura could feel it.

Related how? If Bell and St. Mark were indeed partners in crime as well as lovers, wouldn't they be on the same emotional wavelength? Either celebrating a success or discouraged by a setback? Instead Bell was trapped in despair while St. Mark seemed to be savoring a secret triumph. Of course it might be a development on the personal side, nothing to do with the case at all. And if it was, chances were excellent that Hogarth figured prominently in it.

In the meantime, full dress rehearsal was scheduled to begin in two hours. Under the circumstances Laura couldn't think of a less hospitable place to be than the Garrick Theater with this particular crop of suspects in its present mood. A quadruple root canal by a sadistic dentist would've held more appeal. Or, as Remington would've described it: _Marathon Man._ Dustin Hoffman, Laurence Olivier, Roy Scheider; Paramount, 1976.

The afternoon promised to be that painful…and that ugly.

* * *

Act one, scene one was where it erupted.

Remington returned from his errand shortly after Laura left Diana Bell, which gave the Steeles just enough time to check out the non-operational alarm and hit the cellars before rehearsal. No big mystery as to why the alarm had failed, was Remington's conclusion; someone had tripped the circuit breaker by remote. "A radio device, I'd imagine. Simple to operate, easy to lay one's hands on, and obviously effective."

"But who around here would be savvy enough to do that?"

He shrugged. "I'll wager we've barely begun to scratch the surface when it comes to Hambeth's buried talents."

It was on to the cellars next, with Max Yarborough as their guide. Accessed by a steep stone staircase, the cellars were extensive, and pervaded by a strong smell of earth despite their concrete walls, paved floors and electric lighting. There was no mistaking their origins as part of a working farm.

The temperature was low enough to raise gooseflesh on Laura's bare forearms. "Is it always this cold down here?" she asked Yarborough.

"No sense wasting money on heat," he replied. "The storage rooms are this way."

These more closely resembled Laura's mental image of a props department than the genuine article did. Still, order reigned in much the same fashion as in Max's above-ground domain. Old set pieces of assorted sizes were ranked in recognizable categories; costumes were stored by period in rows of standing metal cabinets. A cupboard with a sturdy padlock housed the few weapons that had been relegated to the trash.

Remington had knelt for a closer view of the lock and now he stood up, dusting off his hands. "Picked, naturally. Rather a bad job of it, but it's the results that count. Max, how well do you know the actors?"

The props man looked a little disconcerted at having to face questions. "I work with 'em. I don't hang out with 'em."

"But you've been here since the beginning, isn't that right? You've known most of them for years."

"That's right."

"Have you noticed anything that would lead you to think one of them has the skills for picking locks? Disarming alarms? Anything they've done or said?"

"Nope."

Remington's exasperation with the non-responses was becoming a little too conspicuous. To counter it, Laura pointed to her watch. "Mr. Steele? We'd better get going. Thanks for the tour, Max."

In the Garrick the Steeles gravitated to their regular seats in the audience and there settled down to their role as spectators. Laura found herself grateful for the distance. Her sense of foreboding was stronger than ever; never a woman to back down from conflict, she was nevertheless relieved that she and Remington were necessarily at a remove from this one, observers, not participants.

When Lizbeth Lyons and Hogarth entered from stage left, she knew her instincts were on target.

It was because their behavior was as odd as Bell's and St. Mark's had been earlier. Probably Lyons' subdued makeup and hairstyle could be attributed to the confines of her character, Ophelia. The sudden restraint in her attitude, though, the shedding of the hip-shot saunter, the sultry eyes: could they be as easily explained? Hogarth for his part was quieter than normal, preoccupied. His air of command was nowhere in evidence. He seemed to have handed the task of directing over to Gerry Kelleher.

One by one the others were assembling, costumed and made up so that they weren't readily recognizable. Wycliffe especially had undergone an amazing transformation, just as Remington had described it to Laura. "He really is a genius," she murmured to him.

"Isn't he? The sad part is he doesn't realize it. And if you told him he wouldn't believe you."

Diana Bell was among the last to arrive. She projected her usual serenity, Gertrude's blonde wig and period gown providing excellent camouflage for any lingering trace of tears. To Laura's surprise, Wycliffe came forward to wrap his daughter-in-law in a quick hug-a token of affection Laura had never seen them share before. From the direction of Remington's gaze, she guessed he'd noticed it, too.

Of Aubrey St. Mark there was no sign.

Now Kelleher was giving the command to clear the stage. The house lights dimmed. The battlements of the castle Elsinore, bathed by an eerie blue pin spot, rose up out of the gloom. Jeremy Thorpe and Simon Glasslough began the exchange between the two sentries, Francisco and Bernardo.

The overall effect was of smoothness and effortlessness, a testimony to the combined professionalism of director, cast and crew. However corrosively the poisonous brew of mutual suspicion, jealousy and animosity was working backstage, its effects weren't visible as the opening scene unfolded. Hambeth's reputation for excellence really was deserved. The Steeles were impressed.

Horatio—also known as Lachlan Ford—made his entrance. The passage of dialogue that prefaced The Ghost's first appearance was delivered. Entering simultaneously from stage left: The Ghost himself, dressed in a cloak and armor, a helmet obscuring the upper part of his face. The clipped beard and mustache were the sole evidence that the actor was St. Mark.

"What the hell is _that_?" barked Hogarth from the wings. "Kenneth! Lights up!"

The boards literally shook under his tread as he strode into the open. Jeremy Thorpe, a slight man, scrambled hastily out of his boss's path, while Ford and Glasslough backed off to the perimeter. Only St. Mark stood his ground. And, as Hogarth bore down on him, began to laugh.

The sound served to goad Hogarth further. He marched right up to his adversary and flicked his helmet with a forefinger. In his massiveness and the richly ornamented cloak and surcoat that belonged to Claudius, he almost did resemble a king, a furious one. "What the hell is this?" he repeated.

St. Mark took his time about doffing the helmet and running a hand through his hair. "My costume. What else?"

"These aren't the specs I gave costuming."

"Of course they aren't. Only an idiot would dress The Ghost in a crown and a velvet robe." With the contemptuous smile still twisting his lips, St. Mark stared Hogarth in the eye and quoted: " 'Together with that fair and warlike form, In which the majesty of buried Denmark did sometimes march…Such was the very armor he had on, When he the ambitious Norway combated.' You'd recognize those lines, if you knew anything about theater."

"You countermanded my order to Graham Bishop, and dug this crap out of cold storage."

"No, I saved you from making a bigger ass of yourself than you already have."

On and around the stage, the rest of the company stood suspended in breath-held silence; in the audience Laura gripped Remington's wrist without realizing she was doing it. The theater trembled on the verge of violence. Something dreadful was about to be unleashed.

St. Mark didn't appear to be aware of it. "You're a married man, for God's sake, and a grandfather," he said. Slowly, pointedly, keeping everyone's attention on him, he turned to pin Lizbeth Lyons with his gaze before switching it back to Hogarth. "Be your age, why don't you?"

He never saw the punch coming, Laura was sure. One minute he was on his feet; the next he was sprawled on the ground with Hogarth looming over him. Other men poured out of the wings, Wycliffe and Baird Kennicot to restrain Hogarth, Denis Paige to crouch beside St. Mark.

"Let go of me, God damn it!" Hogarth was roaring, jerking forward in an effort to free his pinioned arms. "Let me finish him off!"

St. Mark was fingering his jaw. "What are you going to do? Fire me? You know you can't. Bring down the curse on my head? You've already done it, to me and the rest of the company."

"I'll keep you off this stage, by God! You'll act at Hambeth again over my dead body!"

"Oh, Eddie." The pity conveyed in St. Mark's expression was patently false; his laugh was just as phony, and nerve-grating into the bargain. "Oh, Eddie," he sighed again. "Don't tempt me."

* * *

At seven o'clock, Remington declared a twelve-hour ban on discussion of the Hambeth case ("we're here to solve a crime, after all, not to unravel their personal entanglements"), poured a couple glasses of wine and reached for his drawing tablet. "Pose for me, Laura," he said.

She put herself in his hands. She knew, because he'd told her, that he'd fairly itched the whole previous week to wield a pencil again, frustrated to no end by the break in his carefully established artistic routine. Hauling his entire apparatus to Solvang was out of the question, but he did make it a priority to pick up his sketchbook on their weekend trip home.

What he had in mind tonight bordered on the erotic, but tasteful and understated: her bare back to him, hair loose, glancing at him over her right shoulder from above the draperies he'd carefully arranged to fall in soft folds at her waist. It wasn't the first time they'd gone that route. The afternoon before their raid on Tony Roselli's apartment, he'd channeled his fear for her, the memories of Roselli's attack, his loathing for the other man, into capturing her in the lingerie she happened to be wearing. In Menton he wanted her in her bikini at poolside in celebration of her recovery from deadly poison. And last month, after he'd returned home for good from the Plaza, ending the enforced separation instigated by Anna, their bed became the backdrop for a whole series of drawings, as if he couldn't fill the paper full enough with scenes that until then had only existed in his imagination.

Laura was happy to indulge him. It was a variation on foreplay, she'd come to realize, his eyes on her evoking a taste of the sensations his lips and hands and body would bring to fulfillment later. And it fostered an incredible warmth and intimacy that rivaled the pleasure of modeling ballet positions for him. Once she'd gotten over her initial embarrassment—it hadn't taken long-she'd begun to look forward to the sessions with greater and greater anticipation. The feeling was addictive. It cast a spell.

Maybe that was why she was able to drop her guard enough to talk about the final secret, the one she'd protected so zealously for so long. Yes, she'd been annoyed with him last night for broaching the subject of her father and for his persistent refusal to be put off. But mingled with the irritation was increasing gratitude. She'd purposely withheld the information for years…yet deep down she really had wanted him to know, if only she could summon the will to tell him. And now, guided by the new pattern he'd established for cherishing her, he'd removed the necessity. She didn't have to take a header off the cliff, so to speak, or ask him to help carry the load. Remington had pre-empted her.

She said: "I never set out to be my father's favorite. I mean…I never consciously planned it. It's just the way it happened."

Remington's pencil arrested in mid-stroke. From the corner of her eye she saw him raise his head to look at her. One beat, and then another, and then he lowered it over the paper again. "Mm?" he said.

"I guess it was because from the second she was born, Frances and my mother were a team. They just…bonded. And that left my dad out in the cold."

Remington said nothing. Too absorbed in his work to hear her, an onlooker would've thought. It would've been a mistaken impression. _She_ knew he was listening intently.

"You've seen how my mother is. Frances, too. All over the place emotionally…

"…Dad isn't like that. He's a buttoned-up kind of guy…leads with his head, not his heart. I think they embarrassed him sometimes."

The scratch of the pencil went on.

"He used to take me places, you know? The circus-well, you know…the zoo…ballgames…

"He was a Dodgers fan, naturally. He taught me to play ball...and how to throw. He didn't want me throwing like a girl, he said.

"…He coached my softball team for a couple seasons. We went to the championships the second year…"

"Turn your head a bit for me, baby," Remington said softly. "No, to the right. There we are."

"I think it made him proud, how tough I was. 'Big girls don't cry,' he would say when I scraped my knee or wiped out on my bike. 'When you fall off that horse, you have to get right back on'."

The memory, so vivid, coaxed a reluctant laugh from her. "You know what? It was good advice. Trite, but good. I can't tell you how many times it's worked out for me over the years. I wonder what he'd think of that?"

A sharp noise cut through the quiet between them. It took three rings before she recognized it was the phone she was hearing. To answer it meant breaking the pose, but it also meant she could look her husband full in the face. It was then she saw he was smiling at her—smiling his Remington Steele smile, not his Harry smile—the one that had greeted her when she'd awakened in his arms that first morning at Ashford Castle, the night she'd comforted him on the terrace at Rossmore after the arrival of Daniel's videotape, in front of Anna's garden shed when she'd slid his wedding band back on his finger.

Mildred was the caller, and she dispensed with the niceties to get straight to the point. "Boss, I think I'm on to something."

Her voice was flat, almost toneless; Laura attributed it to weariness and the lateness of the hour. "Mildred? What are you still doing there? It's eight o'clock!"

"Burning the midnight oil, is she?" commented Remington.

Laura relayed it to their assistant who, uncharacteristically, had no comeback.

"I was waiting for a guy to call me with some information. I just now heard from him," said Mildred.

"Something to do with our bogus Remington Steele?"

"You got it. I've been putting a chart together. Remember the one I did when the chief took off to search for his name?"

"Sure."

"Well, this was the last piece of the puzzle. Mrs. Steele…This guy, this faker…whatever he's up to, he's convinced a lot of people back East that he really is Remington Steele."

A pause. Then:

"And it looks like he's headed this way."

TO BE CONTINUED


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

**Author's note: Enjoying this story? If you've stuck with it so far, I hope you are. And, if you ****are****, won't you drop me a line and let me know? Of course I'm writing from the sheer love of storytelling and for these characters, as well as to hone my craft (yeah, I realize how pompous that sounds). But feedback, I have to say, is a nice reward. **

**While I'm on the subject, I'd be awfully remiss if I didn't mention the debt of thanks I owe to gilmoradict, Gentle Reader and monica88 for their continued support, both praise and constructive criticism. I'm grateful, my friends.**

**Thank you, valued readers, for your continued interest! ~ MG**

_**She's Having a Baby **_**(Kevin Bacon, Elizabeth McGovern, Alec Baldwin, Paramount, 1988) was released in the U.S. on February 5 of that year.**

* * *

Mildred's statement, delivered in that near-monotone, banished the last vestiges of the romantic mood in the Steeles' motel room. Laura straightened her spine and anchored the sheet more securely around herself. "What do you mean, he's headed this way?" she said.

"What?" A sharp movement from Remington as he glanced up from his sketch. "Who's headed this way?"

"Our phony Remington Steele," replied Laura. To Mildred she said: "What makes you think that?"

"I'm tracking him, just like I did the chief. Places he's been spotted and the dates he was there."

"But how? As of yesterday morning, you only had two confirmed sightings."

"Classified ads. I took 'em out Monday in _USA Today_, _The Wall Street Journal_ and _The New York Times_. Nothing fancy, just a paragraph saying he was needed in connection with an urgent legal matter and if anyone had information, they should call our number. Oh, and I promised a little financial reward to sweeten the deal if the tip is solid."

"How much of a reward?"

"A hundred bucks."

Under the circumstances it was a negligible amount. The idea as a whole showed tremendous ingenuity and initiative on Mildred's part; Laura didn't stint on complimenting her on it. "It's working, I take it?" she added.

"I had seven messages waiting for me when I got to work this morning, and I got another twenty-two calls today."

"_Twenty-two_-?" The rising note of disbelief in Laura's voice caused Remington to put his drawing materials aside and move to the bed, where he paced back and forth, monitoring her side of the conversation.

"Yup," said Mildred. "A few of 'em were duplicates, like you might expect. But I've been able to place him for sure in twenty cities between now and last September."

She ran down the list. There were the three New England locales they already knew about, plus New York and Trenton. The others were Boston, Philadelphia, Annapolis, Baltimore, Washington, D.C., Richmond, Louisville, New Orleans, Pittsburgh, Indianapolis, Chicago, St. Louis, Wichita, Dallas and Houston. The sheer variety was a little dizzying, and to have them shot off in rapid-fire sequence made it worse. Laura began to rub her forehead without consciously intending to do so.

More to the point: if there was a pattern, it wasn't immediately plain to her. Even after she'd asked Mildred to recite the list again while she fed the names to Remington, and he'd jotted them on a sheet torn from his sketch pad, it wasn't. Finally she admitted it to Mildred. "Is this the reason you think he's coming to Los Angeles? Because if it is, I don't get it."

"Maybe it would help if you saw it charted out side by side. It's a timeline, just like I did for the chief. He's on his way, all right. Every time this guy hits a new town, it's a little farther west than the one before."

Her voice trembled on the last words. Suddenly Laura understood that what she'd sensed from Mildred at the beginning of the conversation wasn't fatigue at all. "He's really got you rattled," she said.

"Yeah, he does. Mrs. Steele, he isn't only booking face time at conventions and sparking pretty girls. He's taking cases. And from what I'm hearing, he's solving 'em."

"As Remington Steele."

"Every time."

There was no denying it was a chilling development, but Laura resisted the prevailing trend towards panic. Instead she offered brisk reassurances, along with a promise that she and Remington would spend Friday afternoon and part of Saturday morning in the office. Then, by way of distraction, she added, "How would you like to meet Oliver Arundel?"

Mildred gasped. "Are you serious? You bet I would!"

"We need to find out what he was up to between seven and ten Wednesday night. Mr. Steele or I could call him, but the personal touch seems more appropriate. That leaves you."

"He isn't a suspect, is he?"

"A long shot. But it's a loose end we can't leave dangling. Think you can handle it?"

Excitement had replaced the fear in Mildred's voice. Pleased with the success of her ploy, Laura spent a few minutes discussing the best tack to take with Arundel before ending the call and summarizing the gist for her husband. She wrapped it up with, "She's pretty scared."

"So I gathered." He searched her face. "You, on the other hand, look like you've an ace up your sleeve."

"I do. The game's not even started, and already he's tipped his hand."

This puzzled Remington, and it showed.

"It's against the law to operate as a private investigator without a license, Mr. Steele. Punishable by a jail term."

"We don't know he doesn't have a license."

"If he's posing as Remington Steele, there's no way he could. That's how we'll nail him, once we've tracked him down."

"Ah. Irrefutable logic, as always. One of the things I love about you."

"And here I thought it was my skill as a model." She slid off the bed. "So? Where do you want me next?"

For answer he caught hold of the sheet by its edges and peeled it away from her body. With a quick tug he used it to pull her closer, but not quite against him. "The same place as always—in my arms."

"What about the drawing?"

"I've lost the mood for capturing the image, lovely as it is. What I'm hankering after now is the real thing." The glowing blue eyes traveled her appreciatively from head to toe and back again.

Every inch of her skin was tingling under his gaze. "How real?" she breathed.

"As real as the real Remington Steele?" he suggested.

It was her turn to respond with actions, not words, freeing the sheet from his grasp and letting it drift to the floor. On tiptoe she curved her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him. Beneath his robe his chest was bare; its silky dark hair tickled her breasts and stomach. That was why she was laughing as she coaxed his mouth to open to hers.

Not that it took much persuasion. He teased her with his kiss, and tantalized and tasted her, until their legs no longer wanted to hold them upright and the bed beckoned irresistibly. He lifted his head then with his little trademark hum of pleasure.

"That ought to cover it," he said.

* * *

"I suppose the two of you think I'm a slimy bastard," muttered Hogarth the following morning.

From the other side of his desk, the Steeles exchanged a glance. As a matter of fact, and for their own individual reasons, moral and personal, they did deplore his adultery. But Laura had long ago perfected the art of maintaining emotional neutrality for the sake of a case, and Remington had picked it up from her.

"It's not our place to judge you, Mr. Hogarth," he said. "Your personal life's your business. Besides, your…relationship…with Miss Lyons doesn't come entirely as a surprise."

"You knew?"

"Suspected. It's the price you pay for hiring Remington Steele Investigations."

Still wearing that chastened expression, Hogarth nodded. "That's what I was afraid of. So afraid I had second thoughts about hiring you. But I couldn't see a better way out of the mess."

That explained his seeming reluctance to cooperate in the beginning, his failures to communicate, his foot-dragging when he should've been supplying key pieces of information. Laura had correctly guessed the effect but not the cause. It was guilt, all right—but not guilt over actions he'd taken to undermine Hambeth. It meant they could erase him permanently from their list of suspects.

Objective she might have to be on the surface, but inside she was indecently gratified to witness the amount of squirming he was doing. "What gave me away?" he asked.

"Truthfully?" she replied. "Your promotion of Miss Lyons at Miss Pascoe's expense. Considering their relative talent and experience, there didn't seem to be a reason for it, other than favoritism."

"You're accusing me of being unfair."

"As Mr. Steele said, we're not here to pass judgment. We thought a status report on our inquiry into the actors' alibis was in order. And then we'll fill you in on our next steps."

She and Remington had determined in advance to say nothing about the conclusions she'd drawn from St. Mark's behavior the previous morning, as well as his potential lack of an alibi. Given that they hadn't yet uncovered positive proof that he was engineering the sabotage, it would've been counter-productive. No reason to add fuel to fire before it was absolutely necessary, Remington had said.

They were both old hands at avoiding specifics when dealing with clients, painting a picture with big, broad strokes, so that was how they handled Hogarth. It soon became obvious that it didn't make much difference. He was maybe hearing two words out of ten. Probably planning how to face his company in the wake of last night's humiliation. Or else he was brooding over the effect on his wife and father, whom the Steeles surmised had found out about his affair with Lyons prior to St. Mark's nasty announcement. Whatever his problem was, the Steeles couldn't help him. At the end of half an hour they left him to his demons.

The remainder of the morning was spent verifying the actors' alleged whereabouts the night the props department was broken into. Within a few hours they began to rack up results. The conclusion they came to: the cast members had been honest with Laura. One by one the stories were checking out.

All except St. Mark's.

His neighbors at the condominium complex where he lived gave him away. St. Mark always held aloof from the general socializing, which meant they didn't know him well. That air of exclusivity, as well as his career and looks, made him an object of unfailing interest to them. He hadn't joined them for the informal barbecue that was held in the common courtyard on Tuesday night; no one had expected he would. But several of them stated independently of one another that they'd noticed him pulling into his garage well past eleven o'clock.

So much for dinner with a friend and an early bedtime. The Steeles' tiny but efficient dragnet was tightening.

In the meantime the lone part-time forensic analyst who comprised the Solvang police's crime lab called: the ballistics report on the shells they'd found was ready for pick up. As the Steeles headed towards Los Angeles with it shortly after one, Remington wrestled with the unfamiliar terminology. Finally he came across some phrases he recognized. "He says it was undoubtedly a revolver, a .357 magnum. A Beretta, Smith and Wesson or Ruger, he suspects."

Laura shot him a quick glance from the driver's seat. "Interesting."

"Why so?"

"Because all three of those companies make guns with ambidextrous controls."

"You don't mean it's the gun our intruders returned the other night, the one Yarborough used in _Romeo and Juliet_."

"I don't see how it could be. The shooter fired at me after the runner left the bag behind in the props room."

"Ah, yes. I'd forgotten. Well, then, is St. Mark left-handed?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Mrs. Steele, why is it I'm getting the feeling you're determined to shoot down my budding theories?" His smirk at his bad pun was totally at odds with the irritation in his tone. "So to speak."

Her answer would've been completely deadpan if not for the flash of her dimple. "I don't know. Maybe because you're missing the mark. I'm not sure what's triggering your imagination, but you've gone off half-cocked. My advice to you is, try and keep your powder dry. You'll probably need it later."

"Splendid parry," he congratulated her.

"Admirable thrust," she replied with a sideways glance that told him the double entendre was deliberate.

She'd beaten him in the little battle of wits, he had to admit. Since it was merely a single insignificant loss in a game he knew would last all their lives—a game he would no doubt dominate-he didn't begrudge her. It was part of the fun of being married to Laura.

Unfortunately the fun didn't last beyond their arrival at the agency in mid-afternoon. There the chart Mildred had constructed sobered them both immediately. Hearing the list of locations where Remington's apparent double had appeared was one thing. To see it in black and white was to comprehend fully the explicitness of the threat. To make matters worse, Mildred had added three more New England incidents, two near Boston and one near Darien, Connecticut. All were situations in which the impostor had passed himself off as a private investigator.

"And he chooses sleazy cases, if you ask me," commented Mildred.

Laura was in the process of studying the timeline, but swung around abruptly. "Sleazy? How?"

"Surveillance on a cheating rat of a husband…helping a strip joint put its competition out of business…oh, and there was the guy who wanted pictures of a city councilman taking a bribe, and the gal who was having an affair with…" She trailed off as she registered Laura's expression. "Mrs. Steele, you okay?"

Laura didn't answer. All at once an ominous silence settled over the outer office with her at its heart. She'd drawn herself up to her full height, her shoulders rising and falling with her quickened breathing. It was the only visible motion in her entire body. Her eyes were fixed on a point in the middle distance; her delicately sculpted nostrils were flared, her jaw pugnacious. She looked very much as she had the night he'd appropriated the identity of her fictitious boss before a crowd of hundreds, Remington suddenly thought.

It was easy to understand why. While she had a lot of reasons to be proud of Remington Steele Investigations, she was proudest of all of its reputation for class and discretion. She'd built that reputation with care, categorically nixing every case that verged on the sordid, the vulgar. No lurking around cheap hotel motels or fraternizing with hookers, low-level bookies and street snitches to pick up leads for Laura Holt, P.I., and her associates. They operated in the metaphorical daylight, their consciences as clean as their methods. That was the agency's ticket into the top echelon of society where she was bent on doing business.

And now here was the shadow Steele, not only illicitly trading on their name, but dragging it through the proverbial mud.

She was a beat or two away from an explosion; that much Remington could tell from experience. Though he'd no idea how to defuse it, he ventured to lay a hand on her shoulder. "Laura…"

His touch recalled her from whatever distances she was traveling without him. Disconcerting, her response was, for she regarded him as if she'd never seen him before. Shaking him off, she moved a step away from him.

"This whole thing just got personal," she said. Pure fury underlay her low voice.

And then she was whirling and striding towards her office. "What are you waiting for, Mr. Steele?" she flung back at him. "We've got work to do."

Work they did until one a.m., which was when he propelled her homeward with a quiet sternness that allowed her no room to argue. She even consented to a few hours' sleep. But by six she was primed and ready to return to the office.

His artistic routine aside, he'd never be the sort of early bird she was, but he did his best to keep up with her. She was set on compiling as many details as they could on the cases the phony Steele had undertaken-no simple task, considering how many miles separated them from New England. Grimly she alternated between phone and computer, rapping out instructions every so often to him and Mildred. Both obeyed her without question. Laura on a mission to rescue her business was too formidable for them to do anything else.

Her intensity increased as the morning wore on; Remington shied away at first from reminding her they'd other obligations to fulfill. In the end he had no choice. "High time we stopped back home so we can get on the road to Solvang."

She barely glanced away from the computer screen. "You go on. Call me when you're ready and I'll have Fred bring me over."

An inefficient arrangement. It was unlike her to suggest it. But there was no use pointing it out to her, since she would probably thank him by taking his head off. Exchanging a sympathetic look with Mildred, he pressed a kiss on his wife's cool cheek and left the office alone.

Shortly thereafter he was glad he had, for it made it possible for him to stop by Evangelista's en route to Windsor Square. Nothing fancy, a picnic lunch they could enjoy somewhere within Solvang's picturesque environs, was his goal. In fact he knew just the spot.

Charming. Relaxed. And likely to be inhabited by a child, or two, or ten.

It was good to have that little secret to gloat over during the two-hour trip north. It blunted the edge of driving with a preoccupied Laura—in a less charitable mood he'd have called her sullen—who didn't speak two words once they'd departed L.A. He consoled himself by remembering he was an innocent bystander to her displeasure, instead of its cause.

On arrival at Hambeth they found the Garrick's offices and dressing rooms mostly deserted. That was surprising. To their mind the hours before an important performance should've been full of bustle, complete with panicking actors and various crew members rushing around. But everything was organized and in readiness for seven-thirty curtain.

As they headed along the corridor towards the rehearsal hall, they met Wycliffe coming from the opposite direction. He seemed delighted to see them. "I was afraid we'd frightened you off at last," he smiled, and invited them to his dressing room.

He could generally be counted on for a glimpse into the behind-the-scenes workings of Hambeth; today was no exception. His confidences centered on Aubrey St. Mark, who'd taken drastic steps to insure he wouldn't be shut out of tonight's Dress Circle gala by Hogarth. Specifically, he'd hired an attorney and threatened an injunction that would prevent the Garrick from opening at all if Hogarth replaced him with another actor. That left Hogarth with no resort but to cave in to his enemy's demands.

"What about the costume?" asked Laura.

"Oh, Aubrey will wear the one he designed. His lawyer's seen to that. He's hidden the other one somewhere in the cellars and all but dared Edmund to try and find it." Wycliffe sighed, shaking his head. "I've tried to counsel Edmund not to let Aubrey get to him, but he brushes me off every time."

It was obvious he was struggling to speak as cheerfully as he could for their benefit. The act didn't fool either Steele for a second. "I'm sorry," Remington said. "This can't be easy on you."

"It's not that I'm defending what he's done. It was reprehensible and I've told him so. But it doesn't mean I love him less. In fact, I'd give anything to help him…"

There was nothing Remington or Laura could say to that. All they could offer was murmurs of commiseration.

"How's Diana?" Laura asked, breaking a brief silence.

"A trouper. She's planning to go on tonight as if nothing is wrong. Shall I tell her you were asking after her? Or will you be here later?"

"Mr. Hogarth asked us to stand by in costume in case there's a need for extras," Remington replied.

"Good thing for me he drew the line at me substituting for Diana, even though I'm her understudy," added Laura. "There's no way I'd ever be ready in time."

"I'm sure you'd have done a lovely job," said Wycliffe. His smile was kind, but abstracted; he had other, more serious, matters engaging him. With a sideways nod towards the door, Remington signaled that he and Laura should go.

In the parking lot they were hailed by a group that included Andy Treacher, Lachlan Ford and Cledwyn Rhys. "We're going to lunch and a movie, if you want to hang out with us," said Treacher.

Well-versed in the subtle signs that told him the last thing Laura wanted was to socialize with a gang of semi-strangers, Remington declined the invitation. Besides, there was the picnic from Evagenlista's he'd hidden in the Rabbit's trunk, crying out to be shared. But he couldn't resist asking what film was on the agenda.

"_She's Having a Baby_," replied Ford.

It took everything he had not to chuckle at the remarkable coincidence with his own plans, but Remington managed it. Rather neatly, in his opinion. "Indeed. Splendid choice. Enjoy, mates. Enjoy."

The actors had barely moved out of earshot before Laura said darkly, "This is just great."

Uncertain what she was referring to—was she on to him at last?—he threw her a narrow-eyed glance.

"We chased all the way up here, and for what?" she went on. "To sit and twiddle our thumbs all afternoon? We could've stayed at the office til three and still made it with hours to spare!"

"You wanted to see if Max Yarborough had a list of the actors who played the Montagues last year, so we could determine who was using the left-hander's gun," he reminded her.

"Well, we should've called ahead to find out if Max was going to be here!" Without waiting for him to hand her in as was his custom, she clambered into the Rabbit's passenger seat and slammed the door behind her.

As he rounded the hood towards the driver's side he vented his own feelings by blowing out a long, noisy, exasperated breath. She was in the beginning stages of working herself into a fine rage. They'd never get to their picnic if he didn't nip it in the bud straightaway.

If there was a pat on the back he could award himself as a husband, it would be that he knew his wife inside out. At the Hamlet he had the devil of a time convincing her that their bogus Steele wasn't going anywhere for the moment, and no, his suggesting they steal away for a bite to eat and some relaxation _didn't_ mean he wasn't according the threat the seriousness it deserved. Finally he was driven by near-desperation to unpack the contents of the picnic hamper and display them one by one. She considered the cold roast chicken marinated in white wine, French bread, cheese, grapes and chocolate truffles without speaking, her head on one side.

"It reminds me of the lunch you picked up in Èze last summer," she said. And dimpled up at him.

Hand in hand they strolled the few blocks to Hans Christian Anderson Park. This was the first they'd taken notice, really, of the town per se, apart from Remington's pre-dawn exploration of it almost two weeks ago. Fancying itself a taste of Denmark, it was tidy and pretty, as American towns centered on the tourist trade tended to be. The cobbled streets farther to the west were lined with shops devoted to enticing visitors to part with their spare cash. Here it was more residential; they passed a row of houses, an elementary school, a Lutheran church.

The park had its own Disney-ish elements—the entrance gate in the shape of a castle, complete with crenellated tower was an example—but the little valley ahead lured them on. And it was having the effect on Laura that Remington had hoped for. She'd unbent amazingly over the few minutes since they'd left the motel. Who knew what further wonders a nice glass of wine and a chocolate kiss might work?

By now they were coming opposite with the playground. It held a fair-sized crowd of children who in their bright clothing and untroubled laughter struck Remington as especially appealing. They, too, were precisely what he'd hoped they'd be. He maintained a steady pace past them, though, meaning them to serve as a backdrop for his and Laura's afternoon, not a focal point.

But Laura stopped suddenly in her tracks. For a handful of seconds she merely stood and looked. Then she said, "Mr. Steele? I believe you're busted."

Slowly she turned. He braced himself to meet her gaze with as much directness as he could summon up.

"You never change, do you?" she demanded.

"Who? Me?"

"You. Just when I think you've really, truly reformed, you always revert to type. Same old story. The shortest distance between two points? An angle."

There she paused. A man who didn't know her so well might've thought she'd done. He, on the other hand, had no doubt she was just warming up.

She was-and with the declaration that was always guaranteed to make him fume. "I can read you like a book, you know. All these shenanigans you've been up to the last two weeks, trying to beguile me-"

"Shenanigans?"

"Inviting Laurie Beth to stay? _Penny Serenade_?"—she loaded the next two words with withering sarcasm—"_Parent Magazine_? You're breaking down my resistance to having a baby. You think."

Was there a worse disappointment than having your cherished plan not only exposed but ridiculed? Remington asked himself. Probably, but right now nothing sprang to mind. Neither did an appropriate comeback. He could only seethe in silence and wait for an opening.

"But did it occur to you for even a second that maybe we could talk about it?" she was saying. "Nooooooo. Instead you have to stage these stupid scenarios—play transparent games-"

Ah, he had her now! Setting the basket on the ground, he squared his stance to hers. "Yes, and why was that, Laura? Hm?"

"I don't know. Once a con man, always a con man?"

"It was because of you!" he shouted. "Talk about reverting to type? You're the queen of it!"

"Me!"

"You! I _did_ try and talk to you about having a baby. Remember? Open and honest and above-board, just the way you claim to want it. And what did you do? Clammed up as tight as the Sphinx. Not to mention taking advantage of me!"

She laughed a scornful little laugh. "_I_ took advantage of _you_?"

"The night Wycliffe dropped by the motel. How're you going to defend _that_, eh? I suppose it hardly matters, because you're right. It's the same bloody story between us, only _you're_ the one who never changes!"

They'd lingered in the spot where Laura had come to a halt, and now recognized that they were attracting a lot of attention from the parents who were supervising the kids on the playground. With a groan of frustration, Laura began to storm off towards the park gates. "At least I know when to stop making a spectacle of myself, which is more than I can say for you," she hissed as she passed him.

He turned to watch her departure. "Excellent!" he called. "Thank you! Drop your bombshell and run away, Mrs. Steele. That's your specialty, isn't it? But don't imagine for a moment I don't know why you won't talk about having a baby!"

Did she falter for an instant, slowing her furious pace? He couldn't be sure, so he hustled after her. "Nothing's ever enough for you, is it? No proof of loyalty…no test of devotion. You won't be honest? All right, then, I will. The reason you won't have our baby is you don't trust me to stay and be her father!"

There it was: the anxiety he hadn't expressed, even to himself. Fighting words, they were. He'd realized it as soon as they left his mouth. Despite his anger, part of him wouldn't have blamed her for ducking them altogether.

But Laura—ridiculous, infuriating, magnificent woman that she was—wasted no time in rising to the challenge.

She'd stopped again and was taking his measure. Her head was high, her cheeks flushed and her eyes brilliant, either from physical exertion or passionate emotion, he couldn't figure out which.

What she said was: "You know, you might want to check that ego of yours sometime. It's getting a little out of hand, even for you. Maybe then you'll be able to wrap your head around the idea that when I seem to have a…problem…you're not necessarily it."

She left him in her dust, as it were, left him staring stupidly after her. "Laura, wait," he said, a useless entreaty, and then scrambled to catch up to her. "Laura, Laura, Laura—wait-"

The chase was an awkward one. Unequal, too, given the extent to which he'd already overtaxed his weak ankle, and hampered—nice irony, that—by the added weight of the picnic basket. It was a foregone conclusion that she'd reach the motel well before he did. What he hadn't anticipated was that he'd meet her on her way out.

Her attire was a clue to her purpose, but not her state of mind. In shorts, tank top and running shoes she waved good-bye. "I'll be back," she said. Her neutral voice gave away nothing at all.

He couldn't help it: entirely careless of his sore ankle, he paced up and down the motel room for the duration of her run, checking the window frequently to see if she'd returned. Simultaneously he replayed the past twelve days in his head. How had he contrived to misunderstand her so badly? Was he fighting a battle for her confidence that he'd already won?

And—a thrill of joy went through him at the idea—was it true that he no longer factored as a negative in the trust equation? That other obstacles aside, she could picture him as the father of her child as clearly as he could picture himself?

It was almost an hour before she jogged back up the drive. She was at the cool-down stage, her gait easy and graceful. On the motel's front lawn she walked for a few minutes, shaking out her legs, blotting the perspiration from her face with the sweatband she'd removed. Now and then she cast an uncomfortable glance towards their room.

In a moment she'd be with him, he decided, and decided also that a display of nonchalance was in order. Flinging himself hastily in a chair, he picked up his drawing pad and assumed a pose that hinted he was so engrossed in his art, he wasn't aware she was gone.

Five minutes crept by. Eight. Ten. No Laura.

The suspense was killing him. What in blazes could be keeping her?

Nothing, as it happened. She was still on the lawn, yes, but sitting beneath a tree, back against the trunk, hands folded around an upraised knee, head bowed low.

He wavered on the knife edge of making a complete jackass of himself, leaving her to stew, if that was what she was playing at, until she'd got sick of it. Thank heaven he recollected the pressures she was under: the screwy Hambeth case, the mysterious impostor making a mockery of their good name. He, Remington, fancied himself her bulwark, did he? This was an occasion when he could prove it.

The glass of water he carried out to her wasn't intended as a peace offering, but it served well enough. She hitched to the side as if to make room for him, a tacit invitation to join her. And after she'd finished the water, she twined her fingers with his.

"You really want this, don't you?" she said softly. "For us to have a baby."

He confessed that he did. More than anything on earth, except for her, he said.

"Why?"

He explained, or tried to. It took him some while. In the end he was conscious of not having said nearly what he wanted to and mucking up what he had said. But then he rallied. Laura would understand. She always did.

So he sat back to hear what he'd waited to for over a week: her delighted "yes".

She spent a long time mulling over a reply. Her face was averted, her profile hard to read. "I don't know if I can give you what you want," she said at last. She spoke slowly, weighing her words, the way she had last night in talking about her relationship with her father.

It was a bit of a shock, the depth of the pain that stabbed him, stabbed his heart. Had he asked himself whether there was something worse than Laura making sport of his misguided little scheme? Here, sooner than he'd have liked, was the answer.

But he was an expert from of old in controlling his feelings—or, at least, not betraying them. "Why can't you?" he asked. And then, saving her the anguish, supplied a response. "Your father."

"Yes. And…no."

"Yes? And no?"

"Yes, it's my father. And no, not for the reason you think." She tipped her cheek onto her knee and gave him a wry smile. "See, Remington…you thought I was worried about you, and whether you'd leave me and our baby? Unh-unh. The one I'm worried about is me."

It must've written itself on his face, his utter disbelief, because she laughed. "Not what you were expecting?"

"To put it mildly."

"Yeah, it surprised me, too." The momentary humor faded; in the dark eyes fastened on his was something he would've called apprehensiveness, if that weren't so absurd. "_He _couldn't handle a life-long commitment to a family," she whispered. "What if I can't, either?"

How many times over the years had he reassured her that she wasn't, would never be, Abigail Holt? Enough that he couldn't recall them all. To find the situation flip-flopped—reassuring her she wasn't _Jack_ Holt—was frankly unsettling.

"You're nothing like your father, Laura," he said.

"I'm everything like him. Partly because he wanted me to be…partly because I wanted to be…and part of it's just who I am. Do you know how long my longest relationship lasted?"

He didn't.

"Five years. Guess who with."

He couldn't.

"You, Remington. You're it. The longest relationship I've ever had. What does that say about me, do you think?"

He was tempted to lighten the mood with a leer and a witty allusion to her incredible good taste in men. But then he refrained. "That I'm the lucky chap who won you when the others couldn't."

"Or maybe…I'm not very good at this…At any of it."

He laid a hand on her hair and felt it between his fingers and remembered how a month ago, with all sorts of evidence piling up against him, she'd ignored her doubts and embarked on a search that had saved him from a miserable death in a hot, airless, tin-roofed shed.

He said: "Are you telling me what I think you are?"

"What do you think I'm telling you?"

"No children. You don't want them."

"I don't-" she said, and paused. Her hand went to her forehead, a gesture of distress. "Now's not the time to discuss it. I can't think straight. Not with this fraud on the loose, destroying the agency piece by piece. Give me time to get used to the idea. And…be patient with me."

A compromise, then. It was both better and worse than he'd feared. Disappointment was threatening to engulf him, and it was exceedingly bitter, perhaps the bitterest he'd experienced in a life that had been full of it.

In an effort to fight it off he rose and stretched down to grab her hand. "Lunch, Mrs. Steele. Come along."

And that was when it came to his rescue, his old talent for acting a part. The mask slipped down. He felt it happen. Behind it he would hide the hurt, as he'd schooled himself to do scores of times, hundreds, when life had kicked him in the teeth for no good reason. He would swallow it, put a smiling face on it, as if it didn't really matter, his desire for a child, he hadn't wanted it that badly to begin with.

Just when he thought he'd never have to resort to lying to Laura ever again.

That, without question, was the bitterest disappointment of all.

TO BE CONTINUED


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's note: Thank you, monstercurl, for leaving feedback for chapter 10. I appreciate the time you took, as well as the positive comments! ~ MG**

Chapter 11

It was forty-five minutes to curtain, and no one could locate Aubrey St. Mark.

Remington and Laura were already in costume and nearby in the wings when the assistant stage manager, Thea, broke the news to Hogarth. "I knocked and knocked on his door," she said. "But he won't answer."

Hogarth swore. "Why the hell didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I saw him around earlier, so I thought he had to be here somewhere."

Another explosive oath from Hogarth. "Find Paige and tell him I need to see him. Now," he barked.

Thea scampered off. Seemingly unaware that he wasn't alone, Hogarth was striding back and forth, his resonant bass rumbling with imprecations against St. Mark. "I'll kill him. I'll kill him! That bastard—I knew he'd pull something like this. Wait til I get my hands on him-"

Laura said sotto voce to Remington: "Good thing we're not investigating St. Mark's murder. By Hogarth's own admission he's prime suspect material." She waited a little nervously, for reasons unrelated to her comment, to see how—and if—her husband would respond to her.

His eyes flicked to Hogarth. "Too transparent by half," he said, shaking his head. "Although…it could be a strategy to throw a would-be accuser off the scent. Not entirely outside the realm of possibility, eh, Mrs. Steele?" And he smiled down at her without a trace of stiffness or chilliness.

It was amazing, the comfort she derived from that smile.

Ever since that afternoon and their conversation about not having children, she'd been bracing herself for…well, she wasn't sure what, exactly. Some sort of backlash from him, the logical consequence of having hurt him. For she _had _hurt him; he couldn't fool her into believing otherwise. His faked nonchalance gave him away. It was the air he'd worn in Dublin when his search for Patrick O'Rourke turned out to be a dead end and a year later in London when the Duke of Claridge declared he was afraid Remington couldn't be his long-lost son. She'd recognized it then for what it was: a defense against pain that might've done a lot of damage if he allowed it the slightest headway. That he was shielding himself with it now was a stark commentary on how high he'd raised his hopes for a baby—and a reminder that she was the one who'd shot them down.

Not only did that grieve her, it scared her a little, too. Mostly it was because she couldn't predict his reaction. Would he push her away, as he'd done in the first hours after Daniel died? Or would he regress even further into past behavior and simply run, emotionally if not physically? And what would she do without him if he chose either of those options?

So far her fears had proven unjustified. He'd been the same old Remington during lunch: warm, funny, companionable. But she'd sensed the effort it was costing him to maintain the pose. The look in his eyes when he thought she wasn't watching had made her want to cry.

She didn't, of course. It was a weakness she couldn't afford to indulge in, not when she needed to marshal every scintilla of smarts, guts and energy to combat the evil genius who was passing himself off as Remington Steele. That meant employing a certain amount of ruthlessness in relegating other issues to the back burner, no matter how close to her heart they were. Everything, she amended, except the job she and Remington were in the middle of tonight.

With the help of one of the stagehands, they'd long since completed a security sweep that was as painstaking as possible. Lighting cables, electric wiring and outlets were checked; the joints of set pieces were tested and pronounced sound; trash cans and dim corners were cleared of combustible material. Short of frisking each actor for a weapon as he or she arrived on stage, the Steeles felt confident they could guarantee the Garrick was secure.

Remington's jerkin and breeches, like Laura's long-sleeved peasant gown, were intended only to further the illusion that they were standing by as extras. In reality they were on the watch for any questionable activity. Until that point the interval before the curtain went up had been uneventful. But maybe that was because the prime suspect was missing in action.

Thea returned pretty quickly with Denis Paige in tow. "You'll have to double The Ghost tonight," Hogarth said to Paige. "Get over to costuming and ask Bishop to fix you up, and look sharp about it."

"What about St. Mark's costume?" asked Paige.

Hogarth glanced at Thea, who shook her head and spread her hands wide.

"Your guess is as good as mine," said Hogarth. "Tell Bishop I said a cloak and some kind of helmet. There's no time to fuss with it."

The atmosphere cleared after that, with Hogarth regaining some measure of self-command. Gerry Kelleher came up to him and they bent their heads together over last-minute notes. The light and sound men made adjustments to their equipment. From beyond the drawn curtain, a wave of noise was building from every corner of the auditorium, a combination of low-voiced conversations, the creak of seats, the riffling of the pages of myriad programs. The audience was arriving and settling in.

By seven-fifteen, most of the actors who were performing in the first scenes of Act One had assembled with Hogarth and the Steeles in the wings at stage right: Jeremy Thorpe, Lachlan Ford, Simon Glasslough, Baird Kennicot, Diana Bell, Judd Owen, various bit players.

At twenty past, Hambeth's newly minted star, Cledwyn Rhys, looking a little nervous in Hamlet's mourning robes, joined them.

At twenty-four past, Denis Paige arrived in the opposite wing, wearing hastily assembled, but more or less suitable, kingly attire over his Osric costume. Thorpe and Glasslough took their places on stage. An expectant hush fell on the audience as it waited in the darkening auditorium.

Seven-thirty. The curtain rose smoothly, right on schedule; the first moments of the play started to unfold. And, from their vantage point just offstage, the Steeles exchanged a glance that communicated their mutual relief.

They were far from relaxing their vigilance. There was over an hour to go, and anything could happen, as they were both well aware. But neither had forgotten Laura's theory that the unknown conspirators might choose an important performance for their most spectacular act of sabotage yet. This unremarkable beginning seemed to prove her wrong.

Meanwhile the cast was reaching the point in the scene where Hogarth had so abruptly suspended the action two days ago in dress rehearsal. Remington and Laura had learned then on which line The Ghost was to make his entrance. It was as Glasslough's Bernardo said, "Last night of all, when yon same star that's westward from the pole had made his course to illumine that part of heaven where now it burns, Marcellus and myself, the bell then beating one-" Paige, the veteran, was preparing to move; they could see him poised to take a step forward.

But a cloaked and helmeted figure beat him to it.

Stalking from out of the shadows behind him, it glided past him onto the stage, towards Elsinore's battlements. For an instant there hung about it an air so eerie, so truly reminiscent of a visitant from beyond the grave, that Laura couldn't suppress a shiver. Stifled gasps from the cast members around the Steeles were evidence that the chill had struck them, too.

Then reality re-asserted itself, altering their perception. It was only St. Mark, who had, of course, taken care to manage his appearance for maximum effect. It was second nature to him, that kind of calculated grab for attention. Yet, strange to say, he deserved to have every eye focused on him. Though his progress from left to right lasted a few short minutes, without a single line of dialogue, his face two-thirds hidden, The Ghost commanded the stage. Laura in particular felt a surge of new respect for St. Mark. His many personal failings aside, he truly was an artist, possibly a great one.

A measure of the otherworldly dignity with which he'd invested his character continued to cling to him as he exited stage right. There he stood aloof from his colleagues in the darkest corner, arms crossed beneath his cloak, speaking to no one. His silence intimidated even Hogarth, who made no attempt to approach his enemy or to call him on the carpet for his tardiness.

For her part, Laura found her gaze drawn to him again and again. Something about him was off; she couldn't quite put her finger on what. Currently he had the upper hand in his decades-long feud with Hogarth. If his past actions were any yardstick, he should've been rubbing in his advantage for all he was worth. Instead he leaned against the wall as if indifferent to his surroundings, let alone the man he'd hated for thirty years. He seemed physically diminished, too, smaller than normal in the bulky cloak. Was it maybe a delayed reaction to the ugliness he'd set in motion the other day? Contrition over the damage he'd caused? Self-reproach for having gone too far? She would've given anything for a glimpse of his face, but he never removed the helmet.

Whatever was going through his mind, he remained attentive to the play's progress; he hit his mark perfectly for The Ghost's scene with Hamlet. And it was clear before many minutes elapsed that he was the driving force in it, inspiring Cledwyn Rhys to raise his own performance to the next level. Not that Rhys wasn't good. Unlike Lizbeth Lyons, he'd earned his promotion to top billing. But it was St. Mark who set the standard for them both.

He did it with his voice. Like a virtuoso with the finest instrument, he used its pitch and tones and cadence to convey the emotion he was prevented by the helmet from communicating through his expressions. Profound quiet reigned in the theater, as if the audience were determined not to miss a single word of his dialogue. How gratified he must've been, to know he held them so completely in the palm of his hand!

If he was, he concealed it well. He concluded his final speech; The Ghost drifted away from Hamlet. St. Mark's shining moment was drawing to a close.

It was then that the entire Garrick burst into applause. It swelled and swelled into a standing ovation, urging St. Mark to emerge from backstage to take a bow.

He ignored it. His last line of Act One consisted of one word—"Swear", uttered twice—and he delivered it from behind the backdrop at the proper time. With his work in Act One finished, he turned and headed in the direction of the dressing rooms.

"Should I follow him?" Denis Paige, who'd long since rejoined the rest of the cast, which now included Andy Treacher, Morwenna Pascoe and Lizbeth Lyons, was questioning Hogarth.

Hogarth shook his head. "I'll deal with him at intermission. Stay close in the meantime. I may need you to fill in for him in Act Three."

Remington raised an eyebrow at Laura, but neither of them commented.

The second act was as uneventful from their standpoint as the first had been, apart from St. Mark's odd behavior. But that wasn't really their concern, Laura reflected. Not unless it posed a danger to his colleagues or the paying customers.

_Did_ it pose a danger to the actors and spectators?

The longer she thought it over, the more uncomfortable she became. Because it was the explanation that made sense, she'd assumed his distance and reserve during his brief backstage break stemmed from the role he'd played in Hogarth's humiliation. But what if it arose from more sinister motives? Was it unreasonable to theorize that he was contemplating another unpleasant surprise—or even a lethal one?

As the curtain fell on Act Three, she nudged Remington. "I think we ought to check on St. Mark."

Hogarth was already headed that way, and made no objection to their accompanying him. But suspicion clouded the glance he shot them. "Is there something you're not telling me?" he demanded.

"Not that we're aware of," Remington replied. "Simply making sure all's still well."

At the door of St. Mark's dressing room, Hogarth imitated Thea's earlier strategy: rapped, called St. Mark's name, got no response, and rapped harder. Finally he resorted to pounding with a heavy fist and an ear-splitting roar. "Open the door, you bastard, or I'll knock it down!"

Laura laid a restraining hand on his arm. "That's really not necessary. Mr. Steele?"

His trustiest pick already selected and out of its leather case, Remington bent to the task. Predictably, the lock was no match for his nimble fingers. The door swung inward to reveal an unlit, empty room.

Remington was right behind Laura as she went in and flicked the light switch. Removing the pick from between his teeth, where he'd inserted it for safekeeping, he pointed out, "Costume's not here."

She'd noticed that and something else. "Or his street clothes."

It could've been an innocent situation. But she didn't believe it was. The skin crawling at the back of her neck confirmed the impression. She met her husband's eyes, and knew the same thoughts were going through his head. They'd allowed themselves to be lulled into a false sense of security. While they were imagining St. Mark here, safely tucked away, he was in reality off setting another trap. Somewhere in the depths of the Garrick lurked a catastrophe waiting to happen.

"We'd better find him, and fast," she said to Remington.

Hogarth was in the middle of a tirade similar to the one St. Mark had provoked from him before the play started, but she managed to quiet him down long enough to enlist his help. "If you'll check the rehearsal hall, Mr. Steele and I'll start on the other dressing rooms."

Between them she and Remington rapidly worked the corridor. Some of the doors were locked; since they had no time to lose, he breached them as he had St. Mark's so they could glance inside. Other rooms they found occupied, which gave them an opportunity to question the actors. Nobody had any information to offer. Except for his turn on stage, none of them had seen St. Mark that day.

At Wycliffe's door there was no response to their knock. After a perceptible hesitation and with a grimace Remington knelt and reached for his pick. Laura read his reluctance to invade the private space of the old man who had befriended him, even in a good cause, and sympathized.

She was just as surprised as Remington was when the open door revealed Wycliflfe seated in front of his mirror.

That made three of them. Wycliffe started, clapping a towel to the lower part of his face. On his dressing table were arranged the implements for transforming his appearance: containers of spirit of gum and spirit of gum remover, brushes and a large quantity of false hair.

For a moment his voice and Remington's overlapped each other:

"John-! Laura-! What's the matter?"

"Excuse us—terribly sorry."

Wycliffe waved off their apologies and listened as they explained their errand. "No, Aubrey hasn't been here," he replied through the towel. "But I'll tell him you're looking for him if he should turn up."

The likelihood of that happening was decreasing in inverse proportion to the number of minutes they invested in the search. That wasn't a frustration they could vent to Wycliffe, though. Thanking him for his patience, they left him to his preparations.

Hogarth had had as little success as they; as their paths intersected outside the rehearsal hall, Laura decided to lay the cards on the table in terms of hers and Remington's suspicions. "We don't have any solid proof yet," she told Hogarth. "But from what we've been able to reconstruct of St. Mark's movements, there's a good chance he's the one who left the weapons in the props department Wednesday night…and the brains behind the so-called accidents. We're worried that his absence now means he's got another scheme in mind, one he plans to pull off tonight."

For once Hogarth managed to keep the lid on his temper, but only just. "We'll find him if I have to take this building apart brick by brick with my bare hands."

If their pace was quick before, now it became almost feverish. Together they hurried to the props department, where Hogarth used his master key to gain access to the office. No St. Mark there, or in the center room, or the weapons collection.

Costuming department. No St. Mark.

Scenery department.

No St. Mark.

Meanwhile a scrap of conversation that had been nibbling at the edge of Remington's memory finally settled into place. "Could he have made it into the cellars again?" he asked Hogarth. "As I recall, he's been down within the last twenty-four hours. Hiding the costume you chose for him, wasn't it?"

"Childish," Hogarth replied. "I would've had to be a fool to fall for it."

"Nevertheless," said Remington, leading the way.

The cellars were a long shot at best, given the distance between them and the hub of the Garrick as well as their lack of regular traffic. But the fact that the oak door was ajar improved the odds considerably. So did the overhead light illuminating the stairwell.

The sight of Aubrey St. Mark sprawled at the bottom of the flight amid the wreckage of a portion of the railing, his head torqued at an unnatural angle, was the gruesome jackpot.

"But how can he be a victim?" objected Remington as he and Laura clattered down the steps with Hogarth at their heels. "He's our number one suspect!"

"Try telling him that," Laura said dryly.

The Steeles knelt beside the body. There was no question that St. Mark was dead; his fixed, glazed eyes and rigid features told the tale. Touching his wrist, Laura recoiled at the temperature of its skin and gestured to Remington. "That's strange."

He, too, winced and pulled back his hand. "He shouldn't be that cold, should he? He can't have been down here more than half an hour."

"I know. It _is_ awfully cold down here, but-"

"Is he dead?" interrupted Hogarth.

They'd all but forgotten his presence, and no wonder. He was hovering a few feet away as if he didn't dare come any nearer to his old enemy. He also looked like a man on the verge of losing his most recent meal.

"Unmistakably," Remington said.

"Oh, my God. Oh, my God. There are over seven hundred people in that auditorium—intermission's almost over-what am I going to do-?"

"That's up to you." Alert to the incipient hysteria in Hogarth's voice, Laura made sure to pitch her own so that it was level and reassuring. She got to her feet. "Announce it or keep it under wraps; Mr. Steele and I will abide by your decision. It would help, though, to find out if there's a doctor in the house. Someone ought to examine the body in case the authorities call for an autopsy later."

"Autopsy? You aren't suggesting"—Hogarth glanced from her to Remington and back—"murder?"

"Too early for that. We'll need a chance to take a look at the physical evidence before we draw any conclusion. But right now our top priority is dealing with this quietly and discreetly, and seeing that no one else gets hurt."

Her professionalism seemed to have calmed Hogarth; he turned towards the staircase and made as if to ascend it. Silently Remington signaled Laura that he would escort the other man upstairs. But with his foot on the lowest stair, Hogarth halted and, for some reason known only to him, directed his next words over his shoulder to Laura.

"I…never meant this to happen. I know what I said up there before…hell, it's no secret I wanted to be rid of him in the worst way…but I never meant for him to die. I was just…talking. You know how it is."

It was Remington who answered him. "We do, actually. More than you might imagine."

Alone with the dead man, Laura swiftly plotted the goals she had to achieve. It wasn't often she and Remington had first crack at a potential crime scene; she wanted to make maximum use of the opportunity before the police arrived and exercised their jurisdiction, bumping the Steeles to a lower rung in the hierarchy. If it were a murder case they had on their hands, it was bound to be high-profile and well-reported. Solving it in advance of official law enforcement would balance, if not thoroughly cancel out, the harm the impostor was doing the agency's reputation throughout the rest of the country.

And so to step one: the body.

Lying on its back with its arms flung out, as if St. Mark had felt himself falling and tried in vain to regain his balance. Still clad in his costume, with the helmet a few feet away. Laura's first impulse was to draw the cloak up and decently cover his face, but she withstood it. The last thing she needed was a reprimand for messing with the corpse's effects.

One oddity struck her. St. Mark was in his stocking feet. A careful circuit of the area within ten feet of him failed to yield either the boots he'd donned for his role or his street shoes.

On to step two: the scene.

Unchanged from when she and Remington had toured it with Max Yarborough, with the exception of the broken section of railing and a screwdriver at the foot of the staircase. Mulling it over, she came up with two plausible scenarios to explain it. St. Mark had been in the process of setting a trap for the next unwary visitor—Hogarth, maybe?—loosening the railing so that it would collapse under that person's weight, but had lost his footing, broken through said railing himself and tumbled to his death.

Or someone had made it appear as if he had.

On the upstairs landing she surveyed the broken railing as closely as she could without touching it and then ran the logistics through her head. Certainly the break in the wrought iron was consistent with either theory. So were the position of the body and the location of the screwdriver. But proving that someone had pushed St. Mark was a more difficult proposition. Were his fingerprints on the screwdriver? The railing? Where were his boots? And why, only thirty minutes after his death, tops, were his remains already so cold?

Her investigation had taken ten minutes by the clock, and by the end of it Remington had returned with a man he introduced as Dr. Diaz in tow. While the doctor began his examination, the Steeles leaned in towards one another. "Hogarth's put the stage manager in the picture, and he's called the police," Remington said, keeping his voice low. "They should be here any minute. Hogarth's asked us to liaison with them when they do."

"Where's he going to be?"

"On stage. Made the announcement about the doctor, apologized for the length of the intermission and went on as Claudius as if nothing was wrong. The man has bloody nerves of steel. What about you?"

"My nerves are fine, but thanks for asking."

"Hardly a newsflash. I meant, come up with anything?"

In a few pithy sentences she fed him the highlights. "Think you could nip up to St. Mark's dressing room and check for the boots before the police get here? I don't want to tip them off any sooner than we have to."

With a look that said don't be ridiculous, Laura, it's as good as done, he slipped away. In a few moments he was back. And once again the expression on his face was sufficient for her to understand that St. Mark's boots were nowhere to be found.

That was when Dr. Diaz said: "I've never seen anything like this."

They had withdrawn a respectful distance from him, but now Remington and Laura edged up beside him and the body. "I'm sorry, doctor, but could you be more specific?" Laura asked.

He was shaking at his head, not at her, but at whatever anomaly had provoked his statement in the first place. Closing his bag, he gazed up at them. "I've never seen anything like it. And I've been in practice twenty-eight years." He indicated St. Mark. "Here it is in layman's terms. The body temperature is way off, and I can't explain why."

"Too cold," said Remington. "My wife noticed it straightaway."

"Did you? Good for you, young lady. Are you a doctor?"

"Private investigator."

"Then maybe you can unravel the mystery. Because if I hadn't seen this man on stage with my own eyes forty-five minutes ago, I would've said he's been dead a good four hours."

* * *

Upon the Steeles' return to the Hamlet that night, Remington flopped down on the bed and immediately began to scan the cable channels for something that appealed to him. Clearly another round with his sketchbook didn't figure into his plans, Laura thought. Sure enough, before too long he'd submerged himself in a succession of Marx Brothers movies.

He was still at it when she slipped under the sheet beside him. Snuggling close, she laid her hand on his chest. He patted it and covered it with his own, his eyes never leaving the screen.

She waited a long time. But he made no other move to touch her.

TO BE CONTINUED


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Though Laura rose early the next morning by design-earlier even than she did at home—it was to discover that Remington was long since out of bed and gone.

She turned over and sat up. The combination of the movement and the sight of the empty space next to her sent her memory skipping backward; the present moment aligned with a similar situation at the Friedlich Sensitivity Spa two years ago. An unquiet night fraught with anxieties over a serious quarrel with him and the rift it had probably opened between them. And in the morning, fears that he'd taken to heart the words she'd flung at him in thoughtless retaliation-"Go on, get out of here! What are you waiting for? I was better off without you, anyway!"—and left her. That she'd seen the last of the man she called Remington Steele.

She knew better now. He was out walking, his second-favorite means of escape, after movies. When emotional distress was at its worst, he would literally cover miles and miles, his long legs eating them up effortlessly. It was the same impulse that compelled her to lace up her running shoes and hit the road. She understood it and didn't begrudge him the outlet.

Still she wished he was there. The motel room was lonely without him. She wrapped her arms around her knees, feeling a little bereft, a little forlorn.

But maybe she could turn his absence into a positive. She checked the clock. Five forty-five. She and Remington weren't due at Hambeth until ten. What if she backtracked on the ban she'd declared on personal issues—indulged in the luxury of thinking about them, instead of the business? He would never have to know. There was plenty of time to brew an in-room cup of coffee, settle back against the pillows, and consider what having a baby meant to her.

What it meant to _him_ was the most startling revelation of their married life, maybe of their whole relationship. Nothing in their past had prepared her for it. Sure, there was the episode where he'd helped her tend little "Caruso", the infant grandson of mob kingpin Joseph Barber, and the inter-state odyssey that had begun as an assignment to protect the son and daughter of another mobster, Walter Gallen. In both Remington had displayed a knack with children that sat incongruously on his encumbrance-phobic bachelor image. It was only after Daniel died, and Remington finally opened the floodgates of his shuttered past, that she realized how he'd grown so adept. It was the product of a boyhood spent minding countless broods of Irish cousins. He'd been wiping runny noses and changing what he referred to as nappies almost since the day he'd graduated to long pants.

Yes, but know-how didn't necessarily equal willingness. Ability and commitment were two very different animals. He had, in fact, accused her astutely of using Chris and Angel Gallen to test his suitability for fatherhood. At the same time he'd denied the slightest yearning for children of his own. Nothing in his behavior then or since had contradicted that statement.

And now she knew why. He'd explained yesterday. Partly it was the old self-condemning voice that dwelt inside him, the voice that was a compound of Paddy Gallagher and Bob O'Beirne and Dermot Shaw and a host of unnamed others, telling him fatherhood was too sacred a responsibility to be entrusted to the likes of him, he wasn't worthy of it and never would be. The other part was the type of woman he'd consorted with before he stepped into Remington Steele's shoes. Hardened _femmes fatales_, the lot of them, his former partners in crime. Could _she_ see Felicia as mother material, he'd asked her? Or Shannon? Or—pause—Anna? She'd replied that it went without saying that she couldn't. Well, neither could he, he'd said. And given his belief that no decent woman would have him, thief and con man that he was, what point was there in hankering after a family? Why set his sights on an object that was forever out of reach?

Until you, Laura, he'd said. Until you.

He was more open and vulnerable in that conversation than she'd ever seen him, all defenses down. She couldn't help but be deeply moved by it. By the firmness of his conviction that she'd be a wonderful mother. By how brave and fine he seemed to think she was. By the simplicity of his final pitch: "I love you with all my heart. You'd make me the proudest man on earth if you'd have my child."

And she had to go and spoil it all by telling him no.

There wasn't any other choice. In the end she couldn't shake the memory of the decisions she'd jumped into over the ten months they'd been married, and how appallingly they'd backfired on her. That she and Remington had been able to redeem most of them was beside the point. Picking the wrong fork in the road in _this _situation—if she really, truly wasn't cut out to be a mother—could wreak devastation that would rock their world for decades, generations. A broken family stayed broken, no matter how hard the principals involved patched and tinkered and tried to set it right. She knew. She'd already lived through it once.

So the question was: was she sure parenthood was the wrong choice? Sitting there alone in the motel, she began to do what she'd told Remington would have to wait until they'd caught up with the bogus Steele. She began to sift the arguments for and against.

The reasons for-the pros-were easy, to her surprise. Remington figured foremost among them. She already had evidence of the strength of his commitment to their marriage; the entire Anna saga had tested and proven it. There was good precedent for believing he'd be as faithful a father as he was a husband.

And a loving one, she was willing to bet. How could she forget him rocking Caruso to sleep with a rendition of "MacNamara's Band" in an uncertain but endearing tenor? Coaxing from Angel Gallen the only signs of normal childhood Laura had glimpsed in the little monster? Romping with Danny and Lori Beth on the agency floor, playing horsey and vampires, indulging the three Piper kids with pizza when they should've been eating Aunt Laura's special spaghetti? In the old days the warm, gentle, affectionate man he actually was had come to the surface while he was interacting with children. His own baby would probably tap a side of him Laura couldn't begin to picture.

Especially since he wanted it.

_He wanted it._ That was what she still couldn't quite get over. On the few occasions when she'd thought about them having a child, she'd taken for granted it would require a concentrated, strategic campaign to persuade him into it. The kind of role reversal they were undergoing now wouldn't have occurred to her in a million years.

Why was it happening at all? Hadn't she always wanted children, a family? Hadn't she always assumed she'd have them someday?

Maybe the problem was she hadn't expected someday to arrive so soon.

Not this soon…and not in the midst of a crisis where the agency was under siege and partway in enemy control. All she could see was everything she'd have to renounce in order to do motherhood right: the daily challenge of running a business, matching wits with cops and criminals, cracking tough cases that had veterans with twice her experience scratching their heads. Excelling in a man's world. Partnering with her husband in a style most wives would give their eyeteeth to experience. The adrenalin rush. Spontaneity. Freedom.

She could foresee her reaction to the deprivation, too. Worst case scenario? She would begin to chafe at the confines of her life, feeling trapped, which would in turn morph into resentment. She would grow distant and detached and emotionally unavailable. She would, in short, be exactly who she was: her father's daughter.

Would she imitate him to the last detail, and abandon her family?

She couldn't honestly say the answer was no. And that was what scared her the most.

Unless having a baby changed her. People said that happened to a woman. What if she and Remington between them could surmount the damage their fathers had done, learn from Jack Holt's and Daniel Chalmers' mistakes, build the kind of stable home life they'd both been seeking for years—and provide that for their child?

She pushed a hand through her disordered hair as if by doing so she could organize her disordered thoughts. Almost an hour's worth of determined introspection, and where had it gotten her? Precisely nowhere. Her disquiet unrelieved, ready to table the whole confusing mess to better focus on the Hambeth case, she threw the covers aside and climbed out of bed.

It hadn't escaped her notice that Remington hadn't found his way back to her yet.

She'd been in the shower only a few minutes when he finally turned up. From behind the semi-opaque plastic shower curtain she followed his movements as he shed shoes and clothes and laid them aside. Then he pulled the curtain towards him and peered around it. The blue eyes were lacking the sexy, playful sparkle she would've anticipated, but there was no acrimony in them.

"Room for one more, Mrs. Steele?" he said.

She moved farther under the spray; he slipped in behind her. For a silent interval she waited to feel his hands caressing her, but apparently he was preoccupied with soaping up and letting the water sluice over him. Hurt congealed in a lump in her throat.

Awkwardly she blurted: "I'm glad you came back. I mean…I'm glad you came back in time to join me."

Bouncing off the tiled walls, the words sounded stiff and curt, not in the least what she was shooting for. She swallowed and prepared for another try.

"I just...I wanted to tell you something. I don't say it often enough, I guess, but… I don't know what I'd do without you."

No immediate answer from him. His hands closed on her shoulders, however, squeezing them gently. "You worry too much," he murmured against her ear. "Relax."

She struggled to do as he asked as his long fingers kneaded the muscles in her shoulders and neck and upper arms. But the tension seemed to have welled up from some perpetually renewing source within her. And the massage didn't last long enough to dispel it. Far sooner than she would've liked, he was releasing her and picking up a bottle of shampoo. Her spirits plummeted even lower than they'd been before.

It took a moment to gather the nerve to turn and clasp her hands behind his neck. That was weird, she thought: afraid to hug her Remington? "I do love you, you know," she said into his chest.

He shifted position, stooping so she could her wrap herself more fully around him. Then he held her. The only sound in the room was the water flowing over her, over him, to strike a faint syncopated tattoo on the enamel of the tub.

The warmth of Remington's arms helped soothe her a bit. So did the tenderness with which he eventually tilted her face up with two fingers beneath her chin. "Laura, there's no pressure. Okay? One way or the other, we'll sort it out. No pressure," he repeated, and bent to touch his lips to her forehead. With a final pat on her rear he stepped out of the tub.

He could've made love to her; that much was clear as could be. It was equally clear he'd chosen not to. She wondered what it meant, but couldn't bring herself to ask. Once he left the room she stopped fighting the weight of emotion, leaning her head against the wet tile and screwing her eyes shut.

Because no matter what he said, there _was_ pressure. It was the pressure of loving him so dearly and longing to make him happy. Of recognizing how badly she was hurting him despite his efforts to mask it. Of dreading a future in which, unable to rise above the fallout from her past, she was forced to refuse him his baby.

* * *

"All right, let's take a few minutes and figure out where we're at," said Laura.

Remington glanced up from what Paula's Pancake House billed as their "weekend breakfast bonanza": scrambled eggs, hash browns, Danish sausage and a side of buckwheat pancakes. "I'd have thought it was obvious. Back to square one, with a notable exception. Our prime suspect is dead. And it appears there's no explanation for it, apart from the curse."

Laura speared of wedge of sourdough French toast. "That's what I love about you, Mr. Steele. Incisive analysis delivered with breathtaking brevity and an encouraging dash of optimism. Thanks." She saluted him with her fork.

"Good to know you can always count on me to contribute, eh?" he remarked.

Seated in a booth in the restaurant across the street from the Hamlet Motel, they were picking up where they'd left off the investigation of St. Mark's death last night. Almost directly Dr. Diaz had announced his startling conclusion concerning St. Mark's body, the Solvang police had arrived and descended to the cellar. Detective Thogersen and the single uniform accompanying him had taken charge. In the space of ten seconds, the Steeles were demoted to supporting players, just as Laura had expected.

The upside was that one glance at Thogersen was enough to tell her she could play it close to the vest with impunity in terms of the information she shared with him. Here was no savvy urban knight like Jimmy Jarvis, or a close-mouthed but sharp-eyed small-town sheriff like Dwight Clifford. On the high side of sixty, Thogersen struck her as a cop who'd been dealing with nothing more serious than petty theft and larceny for decades and was by no means itching for greater exertion than they demanded. The patrolman was no better. His baby face suggested he was only months, maybe weeks, out of the academy.

So Laura had suffered not the slightest twinge of remorse at presenting them a case summary that was shorn of a good chunk of crucial material. Thogersen had nodded and taken cursory notes and peeked once or twice at his watch. "Uh-huh," he'd said at the finish. "And you're saying this fella's—the victim's—alibi for these pranks is the only one that didn't hold up?"

"Not exactly. We haven't gotten that far. But we do suspect he stole-"

"And there's a history of bad blood between him and the director?"

"Executive director. Yes, that's right, but-"

Instead of listening to her reply, Thogersen began to stroll towards the staircase, halting for a lateral view. Behind his back Laura rolled her eyes at Remington.

"Preus," Thogersen addressed the patrolman. "Take a gander at that railing, would you, please? What do you judge the angle of the break to be?"

Patrolman Preus peered upwards, baffled but game. "Uh…seventy degrees, sir?"

"Consistent with the idea of a man losing his balance and falling, say, as opposed to the force needed to push him?"

"I'd say yes. In my experience, that would be right, sir."

Experience? Remington had mouthed silently to Laura with a satirical lift of his eyebrow.

"Good boy." Thogersen had turned to the Steeles. "Seems pretty open and shut to me. Death by misadventure during the commission of a felony."

"Not so fast, Detective." The objection had come from Dr. Diaz, who had lingered to offer medical input if needed. "There's still the question of why the body's so cold."

Thogersen looked him up and down, not unpleasantly, but as if indulging someone who wasn't very bright. "You from around here, Doctor?"

"San Diego."

"San Diego. Doesn't ever get cold there, from what I understand. Now, around here, in Solvang? It gets cold at night. Fifties, even forties, not unusual this time of year. And an old farmhouse cellar, like this…Well, you don't know from cold until you've spent some time in one."

It was a stunning lapse on Thorgersen's part. Laura had held her breath, sure that any second, he'd walk it back. For she happened to have it on good authority that a human body under normal conditions cooled at a rate of six degrees per hour after death, a fact that stuck out in her mind because of who'd taught it to her and when and why. While the Hambeth cellars were chilly, there was no way they were frigid enough to steal the heat from St. Mark so quickly.

Apparently post-mortem pathology was a neglected aspect of Thorgersen's training or experience. Satisfied with his neat wrap-up, he'd radioed a waiting ambulance team to remove the corpse to the morgue. Once they arrived he'd bidden Dr. Diaz and the Steeles good-bye and taken off with Patrolman Preus in tow.

Laura wasn't sorry to see him go. If Thogersen wasn't clever or enterprising enough to suspect there was more to St. Mark's death than met the eye, it wasn't her responsibility to enlighten him. Besides, his quick exit would guarantee Remington Steele Investigations a free hand in actually solving the case. It was a win she was beginning to think they needed, both for the agency and to banish the sense of helplessness, the loss of control, the shadow Remington Steele had touched off in her.

So it was with steely determination to play at the top of her game—and to carry Remington along with her-that she considered her husband's sum-up of the situation the next morning. "Okay, let's pretend for the sake of argument the curse _could_ be real. That means we're looking at three possible explanations for last night: accident, the curse or murder. Which one would account for St. Mark's presence in the cellar in the first place? You must admit, it's the last place we expected to find him."

"But not so absurd if he was the one behind the sabotage. I suppose in his opinion any place in the theater would have done. And don't forget that spot of trouble between him and Hogarth over the costumes."

"Right…But if St. Mark was masterminding the accidents, doesn't that negate the possibility that Hambeth is cursed?"

"I'd say it narrows it to practically non-existent." Remington went quiet, gazing into space while she watched him quizzically. Suddenly he said, "There's a fourth scenario to explore, Laura. Suicide."

"Suicide?"

"_Theater of Blood._ Vincent Price, Diana Rigg, United Artists, 1973. An under-appreciated Shakespearian actor denied an important award fakes his own death in order to take revenge on the critics who slighted him. Grotesque but Shakespeare-appropriate revenge, I might add."

"Like what?"

"Well, let's see." He took a few bites of pancake. "There's the one who's force-fed his pet poodles after Vincent bakes them into a pie…another who's drowned in a butt of wine à la the Duke of Clarence in _Richard III_. And, yes, can't forget the one who's tricked into smothering his wife in a jealous rage, exactly like Othello."

"Mr. Steele, you've lost me. Where's the connection with St. Mark—who, I hate to remind you, is really, truly dead?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Steele, I was getting to that. St. Mark, on a quest for the ultimate revenge over his old enemy, Hogarth, stages his own murder by deliberately loosening the railing and leaping to his death."

She picked up her coffee mug. "I don't know," she said between sips. "It doesn't fit with the St. Mark I knew. Somehow it would be easier picturing him killing Hogarth than killing himself."

"Ah, now, _did_ you know him? Or were you seeing what he wanted you to see? He was an actor, after all."

"Good point. But your theory works two ways. It could just as easily describe how Hogarth committed the murder."

"Hogarth lures St. Mark into the stairwell, pushes him over and dismantles the railing to make it look like an accident."

"Or Hogarth loosens the railing, sends St. Mark into cold storage on some pretext, St. Mark loses his footing and falls."

It was a plausible conjecture, but not quite a theory; they gazed at each other with the nagging intuition that there was a flaw in it, a broken or off-color thread that, as soon as it was revealed, would wreck the tentative pattern they'd woven.

Laura was the one to find it. "The injunction."

"Eh?"

"Wycliffe told us St. Mark's attorney was threatening an injunction. Remember? If St. Mark didn't appear last night as The Ghost, his attorney would've seen to it that the Garrick was shut down completely."

"And Hogarth cares too much about his reputation to risk it, even to be rid of the man he hated. Especially on a night meant to showcase his brilliance for the patrons and trustees."

"Exactly."

"So, ruling out the curse, murder and suicide, St. Mark's death was an accident. We're agreed?" Remington dug into his breakfast again, but glanced up sharply at her failure to reply. "Laura?"

A waitress had stopped to top off Laura's coffee; Laura waited until she'd passed to the next table before replying. "A dead body cools six degrees an hour, even outdoors, if temperatures are moderate. Know how I learned that?"

He shook his head.

"Jarvis. The Henry Spellman case."

His eyes crinkled in a reminiscent half-smile. "Memorable moment," he said.

"A lot of firsts for us," she agreed. "The first time we met Jarvis…first time he suspected one of us of murder…our first face-off with Major Descoines." And the first time you left me, she might've added, but didn't. Instead, resting her chin on her hand, she stared unseeingly out the window while she mused aloud. "It was the tightest frame I'd run across up to that point in my career. If it hadn't been for Descoines storing Spellman's body in the ice cream truck before planting it on Highway 5, I don't know if I could've gotten you out of it."

"That pesky Laura Holt refusal to accept the irrational. It's what Descoines forgot to factor into the equation," he said softly. "Don't think I'm not still thanking heaven for it."

"A fact is a fact, and facts don't change. Which is why I'm beginning to think Dr. Diaz was right. St. Mark had to have been dead at least three and a half hours by the time we found him."

A moment of silence and a look of frank incredulity from Remington. "Impossible. Have you forgotten the man was on stage at half past seven, giving the performance of his life? We were standing right there—not to mention the director, the rest of the cast, seven hundred people in the audience-"

"Unless he wasn't."

"Wasn't what?"

"On stage." It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she knew, she knew it sounded crazy, except in the same instant—in a rush of clarity, a flash of inspiration—she knew why it _wasn't_ crazy. " 'Four Ghosts in Hamlet'," she said.

"Never heard of it. Who'd it star?"

"It isn't a movie, it's a story by Fritz Liebling. A ghost story, Mr. Steele. A broken-down drunk of an actor dies of a heart attack just before he's supposed to appear as The Ghost. The manager of the theater company's been expecting the old guy to flake out on him, so he has a couple substitutes costumed and waiting in the wings. Only someone gets there ahead of them."

"Let me guess. Laurence Olivier?"

"Actually…the ghost of William Shakespeare."

Remington burst out laughing.

Crossing her arms, she prepared to sit it out. Maybe it was just her, but he seemed to prolong it deliberately-payback, she thought, for sundry occasions when she'd twitted him for offering a movie annotation that was bizarre or just plain off target.

At last he managed to rein it, though the smirk continued to curve his mouth. "Ah, Laura," he said. "An excellent effort. Commendable, really. But perhaps this is an arena where you should—how shall I put it?-leave it to the professionals?"

"Had your fun?" she demanded. "Sure you're through?"

"I believe I am, yes."

"Good. As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, the ghost of Shakespeare takes over as The Ghost. Or does it? Liebling ends on an ambiguous note. It could be Shakespeare. Or it could be another member of the company."

"Another member of the company." Remington wasn't laughing anymore. Another silence fell between them, brief, and taut with an eerie presentiment of trouble.

Big trouble.

She went on: "In our case it would have to be someone who could create the illusion that he or she was St. Mark—and sustain it through an entire performance-"

"-Someone who knew the part inside out-" he supplied.

"-Someone who wasn't scheduled to be on stage in Act One."

Their eyes caught and held again. This time around their thoughts were perfectly, painfully in synch. The name escaped them on an exhalation that was almost a gasp.

"Wycliffe," they said in unison.

* * *

At six o'clock that evening, a late-model Crown Victoria swept up the driveway that led to Wycliffe's modest, tidy little bungalow; a dark-suited Hogarth and Diana Bell disembarked and went into the house. Ten minutes later they re-appeared with Wycliffe, who was similarly clad. The Hogarths climbed into the front, Wycliffe into the rear. Then the Crown Vic cruised off in the direction whence it came.

And inside the Rabbit, parked a cautious distance up the street, Remington gave Laura the simultaneous lifted eyebrow and sideways jerk of the head that always signified, let's get cracking.

Coolly they sauntered to the head of the block, armed with gear that distinguished their disguises as door-to-door survey-takers: clipboards, pens, a briefcase for Laura. Really there was no need to rush. It would take less than an hour, barring complications, either to pick the lock of Wycliffe's front door or jimmy his window, search the house, and melt away into the twilight. Yes, they'd be long gone before Wycliffe returned from paying his respects to St. Mark at the funeral home.

Hogarth had informed Remington and Laura of the arrangements he'd made for St. Mark when they'd met with him at Hambeth at ten a.m., assuring them they were welcome to attend. Reluctant to intrude—and conscious of how unsuccessful their past attempts to surprise a reaction out of the actors had been—the Steeles had declined. The hour when they would have to reveal their identities was fast approaching as it was. It seemed more sporting to cut the masquerade short, now that they'd achieved the purpose for which they'd been hired in the first place.

Of course, that all depended on whether they found what they were looking for at Wycliffe's house.

Remington had flatly refused at first to endorse the possibility that the old man could be guilty of St. Mark's murder. "I know him, Laura. He wouldn't hurt a fly, let alone a fellow actor. It can't be him."

By then they were walking towards the park, Remington's restlessness having made it impossible to linger over the remains of breakfast. As soon as they'd departed the restaurant he'd reached for her hand and continued to hold it. It wasn't an intentional action; truthfully she thought that in his abstraction he was completely unaware of it. That was why, in terms of their relationship, it did her as much good as his embrace in the shower had.

But there were other, more immediate, concerns to tackle. "Do you really know him?" she'd countered his protest. "Or do you know the side he wanted you to see?"

It was the argument he'd used against her an hour before when she'd rejected his suggestion that St. Mark might've committed suicide. She could tell by the flexing of his jaw muscles that not only had he recognized it, it had hit home.

With his temper barely in check, he said, "You've seen it, too, you know you have. Defending Hogarth and St. Mark to one another? Trying to bring them together? He's kind and gentle, a peacemaker-"

"And kind men—gentle men-can be provoked to violence, when someone threatens their own. As we both have very good reason to know."

Another hit. She saw his brows draws together before he glanced away.

"Remington, you can't deny he fits the pattern," she said. "Who else could imitate St. Mark so convincingly? His voice, his gestures, everything?"

"He didn't do it."

"Hogarth, Owen, Rhys, they were all backstage with us. Ford, Kennicot, Paige, Thorpe, Treacher…hell, even Lizbeth Lyons and Morwenna Pascoe. Am I missing anyone?"

He'd scowled down at her without speaking.

"Am I?" she repeated.

"He didn't do it, Laura." This in a harsh growl.

Exasperated, she'd disengaged her hand and pulled him around to face her. "Just who is it you're defending here? Wycliffe? Or Daniel?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You feel lousy that it took you so long to forgive Daniel for keeping the secret of your family; you wish you'd given him the benefit of the doubt. Fine, I can understand that. But it doesn't mean it's all right to give Wycliffe a free pass if he's committed murder!"

"Don't be ridiculous. The one has nothing to do with the other."

"Doesn't it?"

"No. It doesn't. It's about saving a man from a rush to judgment, from pronouncing him guilty before the facts are in-"

"If you really believe that, prove me wrong."

"What?"

"I like him, too. How can I help it? He's made you so happy, filling in the blanks of your past…showing you how much you're like your grandfather. Believe me, if you found one shred of evidence that implicates someone else, I'd jump and down for joy. But for the record? I don't think you will."

That wasn't the end of the argument; she knew him far to well to imagine it would be. True to form, he'd kept up the resistance during the entire drive to Hambeth, fighting to refute the irrefutable. She'd stuck just as doggedly to her guns. The outcome was par for the course for them: deadlock.

Then he'd said, on a rising note of triumph, "I have it. Wycliffe has an alibi, and it's airtight."

"How do you figure?"

"To your mind, whoever stepped into St. Mark's shoes last night is the murderer, yes? And it has to be someone who wasn't backstage during Act One?"

She'd flicked him a glance of pure annoyance. "We've been through this already, Mr. Steele."

"Humor me for once."

"All right…Yes."

"Yes, you'll humor me? Or yes, I'm correct?"

"Both."

"Then…backstage or not, it can't be Wycliffe. Because there are two eyewitnesses who can attest he was in his dressing room throughout Act One, putting on his make-up. Eyewitnesses of sterling credibility, as it happens." And lifting his hand from the steering wheel, he'd made a gesture that encompassed the two of them.

He was fairly crowing from a combination of delight at the prospect of exonerating Wycliffe and smugness at having one-upped her. She'd excused him for the former and done her best ignore the latter while she mulled over what he'd said. "How long does it take? Putting on his make-up?" she'd asked him.

"An hour. Easily."

"Which means it tracks. So maybe you're right. Maybe it wasn't Wyclffe."

Remington's mood had segued from complacent to buoyant at that point, bubbling over with relief. It was endearing in the extreme, the passion with which he'd invested himself in his new friend's welfare. It might also have been infectious, if she'd paid close attention to it.

She hadn't. For almost as soon as she'd conceded Wycliffe's possible innocence, a prickle of uneasiness began to haunt her. Something about last night…something she'd overlooked until now.

St. Mark had seemed off to her. That she remembered clearly. Too quiet, too slight a presence, apart from his larger-than-life performance as The Ghost.

What else?

She thought of him gliding across Eslinore's battlements, enveloped in the cloak, face screened by the helmet. And once again, in the darkest corner of the wings, no part of him visible beneath the costume. Nothing, that was, but his clipped dark mustache and beard.

Wycliffe in his dressing room, holding a towel before his mouth and nose-a towel he hadn't lowered in all the time the Steeles were with him.

In front of him on the dressing table? She'd closed her eyes in an effort to recapture the image. Brushes. Sponges. Spirit of gum. A bottle of what had looked like liquid foundation. Patches of crepe hair, gray…spirit of gum remover...

Spirit of gum _remover_.

What if Wycliffe wasn't putting make-up on? What if he were-

"-Taking it off," she'd said aloud. "His make-up. He wasn't putting it on. He was taking it off. The mustache, the beard-the disguise he created to pass himself off as St. Mark."

She didn't need Remington's stricken expression to tell her she'd hit upon the truth. In a raw, tight, voice he'd said, "I hope to God you're wrong."

A hope that was crushed shortly after their meeting with Hogarth ended and they'd gained covert access to Wycliffe's dressing room. For at the very back of a dressing table drawer they'd found it: a boxful of black false hair. Remington had stared down at it wordlessly for a good sixty seconds before thrusting the box into her hands and turning abruptly away.

To give him a chance to recover she'd returned the box to where it belonged and swept the room with a practiced eye. She could guess what he was going through; hadn't she suffered the same shock and disillusionment not so many years ago? Hers had been over a girlhood hero, a former Vietnam war correspondent named Elliot Walsh who'd resorted to murder to express his outrage at the transformation of television news from information to entertainment. In the end she'd forced herself to expose his crimes, though it had shaken her to the very core to do it. And, strangely enough, Steele—the outlaw, the unethical-had not only applauded her, but shown a sensitivity she hadn't foreseen in comforting her after Walsh's arrest.

If he was hoping for a little of that himself as they regrouped outside the Garrick, he'd kept it firmly under wraps. All he said was, "What now?"

As soon as the dressing room had failed to yield further clues, she'd known the next step had to be invading Wycliffe's home. Remington cringed at the suggestion, and she'd laid a hand on his arm. Looking up into his face, she said gently, "I'm sorry. I know he's special to you."

"It's not often I hate what we do for a living, Laura," he'd replied. "But this is one of those times." In his eyes was a self-disgust she'd rarely glimpsed before.

Jimmying the kitchen window at the rear of Wycliffe's house that evening brought the look back to life. But this time Remington made no comment. He merely gave her a boost so she could precede him and followed her inside. Without wasting a precious moment, they set to work.

The house was small, and clean enough, but not as neat as its exterior hinted; pulling off a systematic search but retaining the illusion that they'd left everything undisturbed ate up more time than they'd allotted. The last light was already fading as, empty-handed, they progressed to the attached garage.

It was as little organized as the house. Ranged along the walls were a jumble of garden implements, a lawn mower, coiled hoses, stacks of newspapers bundled for recycling, a workbench littered with a variety of hand tools, a pile of cardboard boxes. While Laura started to the left of the door and worked through them in a clockwise direction, Remington slipped back into the house to palm a spare ring of keys to Wycliffe's Honda he'd spotted earlier. He finished checking out the car almost at the same moment she turned from the last of the boxes; they faced each other over the short distance that separated them. Though he didn't utter a syllable, renewed hope was plainly written into his posture.

Meanwhile, dusk had advanced enough that they needed Remington's pocket flashlight in order to inspect the rafters. They were bare of anything save cobwebs. At length he played the beam along the walls, a coda, an obligatory final once-over before they departed.

If it hadn't been for a couple of misaligned stacks of newspapers, he might never have discovered the crawlspace at all.

His artist's inclination towards symmetry guided him, Laura was later convinced. She herself had been so focused on looking for objects hidden between the papers that she'd noticed nothing amiss. But he zeroed in on it immediately. "Look. These have been moved. Very recently, I'd say."

The panel hidden behind the newspapers was small, maybe three by three, but plenty large enough to admit his head and shoulders into the space beyond. "There's something in here," he announced. "Hold the light, will you?"

Kneeling on the concrete, she traced his movements by the swishing sounds that told her he was crawling forward and the occasional bumps as he knocked an elbow or foot against a stud. But then, unaccountably, silence fell. It went on so long that she called, "Mr. Steele? What's going on in there?"

Nothing but stillness. "Remington?" she called more urgently, and leaned forward to peer into the opening. "Are you okay?"

At last there was noise and motion again. He was scrambling backwards, it seemed to her, and a lot more rapidly than he'd gone in. Mystified, she trained the flashlight on the cubbyhole, and waited.

And then he was there, all slumped shoulders and disconsolate blue eyes. He dropped something to the ground between them; it landed with a soft _plop_.

St. Mark's missing boots.

TO BE CONTINUED


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

For a more detailed treatment of Remington's history with Armand Lortie and _Cullerier et fils, see_ "Ancestral Steele", chapter seven.

Feedback would be gratefully received, as always.  
~MG

* * *

"What could've possessed him in the first place?" Remington said morosely as they headed south on the Pacific Coast Highway that night. "That's what I can't fathom."

With the Hambeth personnel scattered for their weekly respite, and the breakthrough in the case, the Steeles had decided there wasn't much reason to hang around Solvang with nothing to do for twenty-four hours. The motel had begun to seem like close quarters as it was. Better to go home, where they could concentrate their energies on the trouble the agency was in. They would return on Tuesday afternoon, following St. Mark's funeral, for the big reveal of his murderer.

In terms of atmosphere, the drive was almost an exact replay of the one that had carried them from Los Angeles on Saturday, except that Laura was at the wheel. Beside her was a husband who'd relieved the stiffness in his right ankle by pushing the passenger seat back as far as it could go and then failed for eighty miles to string together an utterance of more than a syllable.

She didn't blame him. Though she couldn't say it was a shock to discover St. Mark's boots in Wycliffe's crawlspace, that didn't make it less difficult to accept. With only suspicions to go on, even after finding the box of black hair, a faint possibility that Wycliffe was innocent could still survive. But the boots—well, those couldn't be rationalized away.

On closer inspection, they'd also answered an important question. "Lifts. That's how he made up for the height difference between him and St. Mark." Still kneeling on the cement floor of Wycliffe's garage, she'd held the boots out to Remington.

He'd refused to take them from her. Neither had he replied as he stood and brushed the dirt of the crawlspace from his jeans. It didn't really matter, because the look on his face had already conveyed his dismay.

Her next find deepened it. Wycliffe's workbench hadn't been an object of much interest during her first exploration of the garage. But then, remembering the crime scene, a little peeved with herself for overlooking an important detail, she'd returned to check out the tools scattered across its top. "These are Craftsman."

"Craftsman?"

"A department store brand, pretty popular." She'd hesitated before adding, "Same as the screwdriver-"

"—you found at the bottom of the staircase," he'd finished for her. "Naturally." Without checking to see if she was following, he'd turned and stalked into the house.

In sensitivity to his mood she'd maintained a sympathetic silence on the first leg of the trip home. It was only when he broke it that she glanced at him. "I can think of a few reasons," she replied.

"Revenge on St. Mark for the trouble he's caused his son."

"Or preventing him from committing any more acts of sabotage. He might even see himself as protecting Hogarth. He did say he'd give anything to be able to help him. How better than to remove St. Mark from the picture permanently?"

"But why would he have taken the boots? I'm still not sure I understand it."

"Simple. They were a highly visible part of the costume. He couldn't have worn substitutes without calling attention to himself."

"And after his part in the play was over?"

"He had to reinforce the idea that it really was St. Mark onstage. Unfortunately for him, it's not as easy as it looks, putting boots on a dead man."

This he absorbed with no comment and went back to gazing gloomily out the window. "I suppose you've a plan in mind for exposing him," he said after a while.

"Not really. I'm open to suggestions."

"And if I suggested we turn it over to the police?"

"Why would you want to do that?"

"Because, Laura, I know you. If the confrontation's left in your hands, you'll make a spectacle of him. You won't be able to help yourself."

Where had _that_ come from? she wondered. To him she said: "Now wait just a minute-"

"All those dramatic flourishes you depend on for smoking out a culprit?" he continued as if she hadn't spoken. "The clever little ruses and maneuvers and ingenious traps to show off what a brilliant detective you are? He doesn't deserve that."

It was the sort of cutting remark he'd purged from his repertoire after that rocky first three months of his masquerade as Remington Steele, when the collision of his ego and her distrust had brewed daily, sometimes hourly, clashes between them. Surprised—and what was more, affronted-she felt her temper flare.

"And you think the police would treat him better?"

"No, but I wouldn't have to be an accomplice to it, would I?"

"You make it sound like we're the bad guys, instead of the other way around."

"From where I'm sitting there's not much difference between the two."

He was at his cynical worst, which was why she decided to let him have it. "Damn it, Remington, what's gotten into you? On second thought, don't answer that. It's obvious you've completely lost your objectivity. Have you forgotten that Wycliffe's killed a man? And it's our obligation to uncover proof of the crime, no matter how likable he is, or how much we wish things were different-"

"Yes, of course, how silly of me! Laura Steele, impartial instrument of justice, impersonal upholder of the law. Does her job as efficiently as a bloody machine, no inconvenient _feelings_ allowed-"

"That's right, I'm doing my job! And I'd appreciate it if you'd pull yourself together and do yours, instead of wallowing in a mush of sentiment!"

"Wallowing, is it? Well, I'd far rather have a healthy go than close off my emotions so tight, there's no room left to care for other people!"

A blistering retort had already shaped itself in her mind; she swallowed it before it could reach her lips. Because, all of a sudden, she wasn't entirely sure what the argument was about. Wycliffe? Or them? Was Remington as aware of the subtext as she was, or had inner bitterness broken through without his intention, too strong to withstand, no matter how much he wanted to keep it in check?

The thought of asking him outright gave her pause. No, scratch that: it tied her stomach in knots. Instead she gripped the steering wheel in an effort to clear her head and struggled for a conciliatory tone. Meanwhile there was no sign of an imminent apology from him, not in those hostile blue eyes and that unyielding jaw.

"Look," she said at last. "If it's any comfort, I've been in your shoes. There's no worse place to be. Maybe it would help if we reminded ourselves to keep our guard up at all times when we're under cover, even if the person we're dealing with doesn't seem to be a suspect."

He snorted. "Wearing masks, you mean."

"That's never bothered you before."

"Well, it does now."

That was his last word on the subject. He underscored its finality by tilting his seat back until it was almost horizontal, folding his arms and closing his eyes for the rest of the ride. And on arrival at Windsor Square he trailed her without speaking into the house, where he slammed into the den and turned up the volume on some movie.

At two a.m. he still hadn't come to bed.

Barefoot in the darkness, she descended the stairs in search of him. He was sleeping sprawled on his stomach, one arm dangling, on the sofa in the den—the sofa that once dominated the Rossmore apartment's living room. On the oversized television screen across the room the crackle and hiss of the test pattern served as slumber-inducing white noise. It was a scene that offered insight into how he'd probably spent his nights without her the last year or so before they got married.

Carefully she untied his shoes and eased them off. Then she moved to the other end of the sofa to kneel close beside him. For a minute or two she debated the perfect way to mend the quarrel: slipping into his arms, molding her body to his and waking him with a kiss. Why not? Two nights in a row without him was two too many, as far as she was concerned. Whatever the reason he'd held back from sex last night and this morning, if she initiated now, he'd recognize the overture for what it was, an apology, an attempt to put things right between them. The barriers would vanish. He would respond to her with his usual ardency. Certainly he wouldn't push her away.

Would he?

She didn't know the answer to that. Hesitating in the flickering light from the TV, listening to her husband's even breathing, she had to acknowledge it. And she, Laura Holt Steele, the intrepid, the bold, the emancipated woman of the eighties, couldn't summon the guts to put him to the test. The most she was willing to risk was stroking the silky black hair back from his brow and kissing his cheek, movements too gentle to rouse him.

But maybe that was okay. Sex or no sex, _they'd_ be okay. Wouldn't they? Wasn't his presence the guarantee? He was still here; he hadn't run as she'd half-feared he would. What had he promised that morning? One way or the other, they'd sort it out. Funny how once upon a time pinning her hopes on a promise from her Mr. Steele would've struck her as the height of deluded folly. Now it felt like the only solid thing to hold onto in an emotional landscape that in the blink of an eye had transformed from stable to tenuous, clear-cut to ambiguous.

Morning found him less volatile in terms of his temper, but still abnormally quiet; during their seven a.m. session in the room that served double duty as his studio and her workout space, he said barely a word. Later he cited errands as an excuse to drive separately to the office. That he made it in time to sit in on a meeting with a difficult new walk-in client was, she supposed, a circumstance to be thankful for. At least his public face was impeccable, so much so that by the end of the hour, they'd secured a lucrative security contract purely on the strength of his charm.

Personally Laura would've preferred not to take the case at all. Too bad that practicalities like salaries and office rental dictated it. But they were directly at odds with her impatience to set off on the hunt for the creep who'd convinced the entire Eastern Seaboard that he was Remington Steele in the flesh. At this point all that stood between the Steeles and their departure for New England was the wrap-up of St. Mark's murder. If she accomplished what she planned to today, she and Remington could conceivably depart on board Wednesday's red-eye. Mr. Creswell and his chain of jewelry stores would just have to sit on the back burner until they returned.

Unlike Friday and Saturday, she left Remington and Mildred to their own devices while she closeted herself in her office and pored over the information the three of them had already amassed. It pleased her to see that a coherent picture of the fraud's activities was developing. But their best bet for nabbing him quickly remained the one person they were sure had seen him on multiple occasions-the girl he was sleeping with, if the letter she'd erroneously directed to the agency was to be believed. That meant Quinnipiac, Connecticut, would be the first destination on Laura's and Remington's itinerary. Resolutely Laura declined to dwell on how close to her mother's it would bring them.

She was hard at work putting detailed logistics together when it slowly sank in that Remington was hovering in her office doorway. There was an envelope in his hand. For the second time in two days the past looped back on itself in an incidence of déjà vu; she was once again staring at him in perplexity while he went off on a tirade about her taking the case in Pramagiorre without consulting him.

But no, his expression was all wrong. So was his voice as he held out the envelope. In it was a thread she recognized as fear. The skin at the back of her neck tightened in response, but she rose anyway and took the envelope from him.

And yet, he'd only said: "It's from Armand Lortie."

Armand Lortie. One of Remington's partners in the _Cuillerier et fils_ con he'd run for a few years on the French Riviera, a yacht brokerage that was the front for a successful smuggling operation. As far as she knew, Remington had neither seen nor spoken to Lortie since their amicable parting of the ways in 1978. What could possibly have motivated Lortie to track him down and get in touch now?

Whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

The address of origin on the telex was Cagnes-sur-Mer, France. According to the date, Lortie had sent it earlier that day. That was the most her high-school-freshman-level French was equal to, beyond a handful of disconnected phrases. She handed it back to Remington for translation.

"_Sir_," he read aloud, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

"_I beg your forgiveness for disturbing your privacy, but I feel obliged to inform you of a recent encounter I've had, one of a most confusing nature. It has to do with a red-haired young lady_…"

He paused. Not because the language barrier had defeated him—though he wasn't the fastest ever, he was nevertheless doing a decent job of turning French into understandable English-nor for dramatic effect. It looked as if the words were literally stuck in his throat.

"…_called Windsor Thomas_…" he finally got out.

All of a sudden standing no longer struck Laura as such a good idea. Groping behind her, she located her chair and fell heavily into it.

Clearing his throat, Remington continued. "—_who works for an American television channel. She is seeking information regarding a business concern known as _Cuillerier et fils, _which was in existence ten years ago and proven to be fraudulent long after it shut its doors. _

"_The young lady seems to be under the impression that there's a resemblance between myself and a certain Étienne Hibert who was a partner in the business, along with one Jean Murrell. A third reputed associate, Jules Langfranc, she has thus far been unable to locate. In any case, it is not he who interests her, but Mr. Murrell._"

Remington lifted his head so their eyes could meet. "Oh, my God," Laura breathed.

There wasn't much more to the message. "_Of course I had to declare myself unable to help her as I had never had the pleasure of meeting the gentleman in question and didn't recognize him from the photo she was kind enough to produce. As the happily married father of three children and proprietor of a thriving tour company, said I, I could have no connection to a criminal enterprise such as the one she described. Miss Thomas expressed her disappointment and departed. There the matter rests. _

"_I strongly hope this information will be useful to you if you should encounter Miss Thomas in person. _

_Believe me, dear sir, upon the expression of my most sincere compliments, _

_That I am yours truly,_

_Armand Lortie._"

As the final syllables died away, Remington folded the telex and returned it to its Western Union envelope. When he passed it to Laura once more, she received it gingerly between thumb and forefinger, as if it were animate and savage and might harm her if she didn't handle it with extreme caution.

But of course it was doing that already.

"Last week, at the Press Club awards," she said to Remington. "What did you and Windsor talk about?"

He hitched a chair closer to her desk and sat down. "Nothing of consequence. At least I didn't think so. She pestered me about the thinness of my biography. Flirted discreetly. Hinted that she was hoarding some juicy tidbit of information she'd spring at the proper time. Typical Windsor, in other words."

"Did she happen to mention a trip to France?"

"I'd have told you straightaway if she had. But Laura, ask yourself this question. How did she guess there's a trail in France to follow?"

He was right; it was a good question. And, unbidden, a credible answer flashed in her mind. Remington, a-bask in the afterglow of an extra-marital encounter, boasting of past exploits to the redheaded news-bimbo across some silken pillow…

Knock it off, she ordered herself. To him she said, "I don't know. All the public information we've put out about your past ties you to England. Unless there's something you're not telling me…?"

"I was always careful to make sure they didn't overlap, my alter egos. I've told you that before. Someone had to have tipped her off. But who, damn it?"

"I don't know," she said again. "So let's back up for a second. Is there a chance we've jumped the gun here? I mean, Armand seems to believe he threw her off the scent. And so far she hasn't been able to find—who did you say the other guy was?"

"Jules Langfranc. One of Denis Bédard's favorite aliases."

"Then maybe it's nothing to worry about."

"On the contrary. Armand's warning me I'm in danger, deadly danger."

This amazed her. "Where'd you pick that up from? Secret code?"

"Don't forget I've lived among the French, my love. That picture Americans have of them as a country of libertines? Nothing could be further from the truth. They're the most socially correct people on the planet. Worse than the Japanese, if you ask me."

"Remington, I have no clue what you're talking about."

"Think back to your French lessons. You know what _tu _and _vous_ mean, and when to use them, don't you?"

"Sure. They both mean 'you', but _tu _is for family members and good friends-"

"—and children," he reminded her.

"Right. _Vous _is what you'd say to a business associate or a stranger."

"Consider this. Armand and I were close as could be. Almost the brother I never had, I'd say he was. Yet in the telex he addresses me as _vous_. And the closing salutation is one you'd use for a mere acquaintance."

At last it was beginning to make sense. "He did it on purpose because he knew you'd sit up and take notice."

"Exactly. He couldn't very well acknowledge our friendship and warn me openly, not with Windsor sniffing around. What if she got hold of the telex, or the authorities did? As for the rest…read between the lines, Laura."

He fell silent as if to leave her to it. It was hardly necessary. Up to that point she'd managed to keep the truth at bay, but now it was assaulting her relentlessly. Partly to shake it off, partly to focus her thoughts, she jumped to her feet and began to pace.

Windsor had a picture of Remington she'd been shopping up and down the Riviera.

Windsor knew about _Cuillerier_ _et fils_, knew it wasn't legit, knew that Jean Murrell was one of the three partners in the scam.

She also knew that Jean Murrell and Remington Steele were the same man _before_ she called on Armand Lortie in Cagnes-sur-Mer.

Where had she gotten the information? Who else had she talked to? How much had her nose for news ferreted out about Remington's crimes, cons and other identities, especially Paul Fabrini, jewel thief?

From whatever angle Laura approached it, it was a slow-motion disaster in the making. And if it became a reality, its ramifications would affect every facet of their lives: their reputation, their standing in the community, their ability to earn a living, their relationships with family and friends…

How the hell were she and Remington supposed to deal with this _and_ stop their California-bound impostor before he did any more damage?

Bit by bit the foundation of the masterful scheme she'd cooked up seven years ago was buckling. And all she could do was stand by and watch, powerless to prevent the collapse.

Cutting herself short before full-blown panic ensued, she spoke over her shoulder to Remington. "You do realize she's just this side of exposing you as a fraud, don't you? And that if she takes you down, the agency goes with you?"

"The thought had occurred, yes."

"Then we'd better find out when she's due back and come up with a plan before she gets here. Because we're not losing this agency to anyone, not our phony Remington Steele, and most definitely not Windsor Thomas and her ambition."

In a voice like cold steel, Remington said, "No, we're not."

So rarely did he use that tone, it stopped Laura in her tracks. She turned to him. What she saw was her husband at his angriest, beyond even the white-faced fury Anna had evoked in him in their first meeting after Walter Patton's death. For a second the look in his eye reminded Laura of the one he'd worn while preparing to shoot Tony Roselli in an alley in Pico Union.

It vanished so quickly she thought she might've imagined it. He in the meantime was saying with that same chilling evenness, "She may think she has me where she wants me. But I've no intention of rolling over and playing dead while she does us in. The best part is, she's put the means for thwarting her right in my grasp."

"How do you mean?"

"Something she said at the awards, a promise she made. 'If I do find whatever it is you're hiding, I'll warn you before I put it on the air.' "

"_Now_ you tell me?"

He ignored that. "The answer's obvious, Laura. We'll counteract her the same way we did Anna. Find out exactly what she has on me and retrieve it from her, whether it's you and me—or, better yet, a trustworthy surrogate who'll provide an impeccable alibi for when the evidence disappears."

Despite her best efforts she couldn't suppress a peal of ironic laughter. "You make it sound so easy."

"Not easy, no. Bloody difficult, in point of fact. But it's just the sort of medicine she deserves, don't you think?" His gaze on her was insistent as he held out his hand.

She didn't meet him halfway, not immediately. But then she did, giving him her hand. Both the hesitation and the acquiescence resonated with meaning beyond themselves.

He seemed to think so, too, rising from the chair with softened eyes and closing her hand between his. "She won't get away with this, I swear to you," he said. "I'll put a stop to it if it's the last thing I do."

* * *

At least, Laura would think later, one good thing came out of the Windsor threat.

For oddly enough, the additional pressure was exactly what she and Remington needed to move past the hurt and misunderstanding that had been dividing them for the past few days. Didn't they say adversity tended to draw people together? In this situation it turned out to be true. It was like taking shelter in a familiar refuge, the sense that once again, it was her and Remington against the world, the way things were supposed to be. Though he didn't exactly articulate it out loud, she recognized the signs that said he was feeling it, too.

The major one was his welcome when she joined him for a movie after dinner. Somehow her personal favorite evening-at-home activities, reading, playing the piano, couldn't compare to being close to him just then. So she found herself poking her head through the door of the den, struggling to disguise her diffidence—they hadn't made up, after all, not really—under a casual question. "Mind if I hang out with you a while?"

For answer he'd patted the sofa beside him. And proceeded to go himself one better, pulling her into his arms. There she settled into position on his lap, head pillowed on his arm, acutely thankful for the difference between last night and this.

Beneath the soundtrack of _They Won't Believe Me_ (Robert Young, Susan Hayward, RKO, 1947), quiet enveloped them. The film was the kind Remington liked best, noir-ish, black-and-white, but beyond the novelty of watching Dr. Marcus Welby, MD, in the role of a lying, philandering jerk, Laura couldn't work up much interest in it. Besides, she was more concerned with relishing the sensation of Remington's arms around her and the scent of his cologne. How she'd missed them…

It was after over an hour had passed that he said: "This is my fault, Laura."

She startled awake from the doze she'd fallen into. "What? What's your fault?"

"This business with Windsor. If I'd taken my real name when you asked me to, none of this would've happened."

His assessment of their predicament was so unexpected it left her without a ready reply. "I don't think that's necessarily true," she said at last.

"All I wanted was to keep you safe. If I'd thought at the time it would lead to this…"

It took a beat or to believe what she was hearing and then two more to keep from hitting him with an 'I told you so'. Finally he was accepting the substance of the argument with which she'd hammered him when they wrangled over the issue in Menton last summer! This was the very scenario she'd worried about, the emergence of a successor to Norman Keyes who would attempt to expose Remington, putting him in harm's way. On fire with his newly kindled commitment to her, stubborn to the last, Remington had refused to allow _her_ to protect _him_. And in the end he'd carried the day.

Would a re-hash do him, them, any good right now? Not at all, she decided. Instead she said philosophically, "It was bound to happen sooner or later. Let's be grateful Armand gave us the heads-up. What we need to focus on now is how to deal with Windsor as well as our impostor without giving short shrift to either one. At the risk of stating the obvious, we've got our work cut out for us."

He was gazing down at her quizzically. "That's it? That's all you have to say?"

"Why, what else were you expecting?"

"How about I should've listened to you in the first place? That I'm an idiot, an imbecile, an inept boob, a short-sighted sod who disgraces the detective profession-"

"You don't need to hear it from me, Mr. Steele. You seem to be doing just fine on your own."

He'd been laughing a little at himself, his wicked cheeky laugh, but now it faded away. He cuddled her close for a bit; his voice when he spoke was charged with tender vehemence. "I'll make it up to you, Laura. You'll see. I'll set it right again, all of it."

'I won't let her hurt you'. It trembled between them, unsaid, as it had earlier in the office. But Laura heard it, and loved him for it.

"You already have." Her hand reached up to caress his cheek.

He didn't say anything more, just wrapped his arms more tightly around her, bent his head, and kissed her.

That was when she knew for sure that no matter the outcome of the struggles that lay ahead of them, including the question of whether or not to have a baby, she and Remington would be okay.

* * *

On their arrival at the agency at nine a.m. on Tuesday, Remington and Laura were as energized as they could possibly be for that afternoon's case-closing at Hambeth.

Gone was every trace of the undercover identities they'd assumed, the jeans and track shoes and casual shirts that had marked them out as the novice actors Jim Monkley and Terry Randall. In fact, the clothing they were wearing was chosen specially to enhance their advantage over their unsuspecting subjects. Long ago they'd learned the subtle psychological suggestion of teamwork that lay in appearing in complementary colors. So the soft brown of Laura's suit, with its subtle peplum and rounded shouder pads, was repeated in Remington's dark taupe trousers and stripe-on-strip necktie. Her off-black bag and shoes echoed his black blazer.

Though the Steeles were a little early, Mildred was already waiting for them, and vibrating with excitement. "Boss! Chief! You'll never guess what! Today's _Variety _has an interview with Oliver Arundel! He's joining _L.A. Law _for six episodes, and he talks about St. Mark and Hambeth!"

The newspaper she was waving approached a tad too near Remington's face. Wincing, he brushed it away. "I didn't know you took _Variety_, Mildred," he commented. "A little...well..._racy_ for a devoted PBS watcher like you, isn't it?"

Mildred straightened to her full height, trying to project an image of wounded dignity but falling short. "I'll have you know they carry relevant reviews of the most important movies of our time."

Remington smirked. "Of course they do."

As was her wont when had she more important matters to occupy her, Laura was tuning their exchange out. She found it interesting that _Variety_ had chosen to cover St. Mark's death when neither of the big daily broadsheets—the _Times_ and the _Trib_—had allotted him any more publicity than a three-paragraph obituary on their arts and entertainment pages. Probably it was a circumstance that had thrilled Edmund Hogarth and the Hambeth trustees to no end.

As soon as she flipped to the article, she realized that "coverage" was too generous a term. St. Mark and Hambeth were only a sidebar to the main event, Oliver Arundel and the part he'd snagged on _L.A. Law_. Arundel saluted St. Mark as a gifted colleague he would sorely miss and mentioned plans to attend the actor's funeral. The entire reference took a mere two lines.

Swiftly Laura skimmed through the remaining paragraphs, lighting here and there on a quote, passing over the rest. She'd almost reached the end when the real goods jumped out at her. She read the words, skipped to the last line and then stopped short, uncertain that she'd gotten it right. Arundel? Starting in May? At Stratford?

Backing up, she read it again. Yes, there it was in black and white: the Stratford Festival, Ontario, was pleased to announce that they'd added Oliver Arundel to the company. His first role would be that of Andrew Undershaft in _Major Barbara_ at the Tom Patterson Theater at the end of May.

The paper slipped between her fingers, but Laura never noticed it. She never heard the questions Remington and Mildred directed at her, either.

She was thinking:

Arundel had signed on with Hambeth's rival only three weeks after his release from his contract-a rival where Andy Treacher had once been a key player. And Treacher had stepped into Arundel's role as Rosencrantz in _Hamlet_. "His loss, my gain," he'd chuckled when Laura related Arundel's reaction to the curse.

Coincidence? Or was it something else? And could she and Remington prove it?

"Mildred," she said. "Get Oliver Arundel on the phone. I need to talk to him before we leave for Solvang. After that, see if you can reach Diana Hogarth. Mr. Steele and I will be in his office.

Linking her arm with her husband's, she dimpled up into a pair of mystified blue eyes.

"Dry your tears, Mr. Steele," she said. "This case just broke wide open."

TO BE CONTINUED


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

"The name's Steele, Remington Steele. My wife and partner, Laura. We're private investigators hired to find the culprits who've set up so-called accidents at this theater on various occasions over the past four months…and, incidentally, may be responsible for the death of Aubrey St. Mark."

A ripple of sound swept over the assembled Hambeth company as they reacted to Remington's announcement. Flanking him at the head of the long table in the rehearsal hall, Laura regarded the actors with cool satisfaction. It was always good to open one of these show-and-tell sessions by knocking the audience off balance. If everything went according to plan, the presentation she and her husband had rehearsed would keep them there.

They were all gathered around the table, with the tragic exception of St. Mark, as they were the day the Steeles arrived at Hambeth. Hogarth and Diana Bell, seated on opposite sides; the younger set, Rhys, Owen, Lyons and Ford, clustered together around one corner; Glasslough, Kennicot, Paige and Thorpe, Morwenna Pascoe and Andy Treacher; and Oliver Arundel, separated as far from Hogarth as he could be by the length of the table. A roomful of people who made their living by concealing who they were; a tough nut to crack, once upon a time. But now she and Remington had succeeded in shocking them out of their professional camouflage.

One face alone wore a different expression from the others'. Wycliffe was gazing at Remington with what was clearly disappointment. "Then—you're _not_ John Chalmers? Or Lloyd Chalmers' grandson?"

"Yes, he _is_ Lloyd's grandson," Laura said quickly, before the question could shake Remington's focus. "That part is true. And Daniel wanted to call him John Lloyd after his grandfather, but his mother took him away to Ireland before he could be christened."

While Wycliffe subsided, brow still clouded with confusion, she checked her watch. Three thirty-eight. "Mr. Steele?" she said, and withdrew a few steps, leaving the floor to him.

"Thank you, Mrs. Steele." A showman to his very fingertips, Remington spun out the suspense by deliberately surveying the actors one by one. Most of them stirred uneasily under his piercing blue stare. When he started to pace slowly around the table, heads swiveled in his wake.

Yes, he was good, Laura thought. Damn good. For a minute she allowed herself the warm glow of pride, of accomplishment, that she derived these days from watching him in action. Who'd trained him, after all? She had. Who'd ignored her misgivings to give him the chance to become a real detective when he asked for it, and had steadily increased the amount of responsibility she was willing to share with him ever since? She had. And now she was reaping the rewards. They really were a team, in both the business and the bedroom, the way she used to imagine they could be when he first declared in public that he was Remington Steele.

Nobody was taking the joy of this hard-earned partnership away from her. Fiercely she made a vow to herself. Nobody.

Remington, for his part, was getting down to basics. "A live bullet in a prop musket," he began. "A fire in the costume department. A nasty shock administered to your lighting engineer, courtesy of a short circuit in the light board. A piece of scenery transformed to a potentially lethal missile. The safety cap at the tip of a rapier suddenly split, though it was inspected and pronounced sound only days before. And finally…a solidly welded iron railing collapsing under a man's weight and sending him tumbling to his death.

"Accidents, the skeptics among you assured Mrs. Steele and me. The curse, argued others, most notably your late lamented colleague, St. Mark. The curse brought down on you by your director himself when he injudiciously invoked the name"-here the group held its collective breath as Remington paused to enjoy a 'will he or won't he?' moment—"of a certain character in a certain 'Scottish play' while on stage. But none of you seemed to have considered the possibility that was plain to us almost as soon as we'd spent a few hours amongst you."

Another pause. "Deliberate sabotage," said Remington.

He was stroking his chin, his tone thoughtful, as if he was musing aloud. "Which leads immediately to the most elementary of the questions a trained investigator—an expert in the workings of the criminal mind-poses at the start of a case. 'For what motive? What could an individual or individuals hope to gain by attracting negative attention to Hambeth…ruining its reputation…scaring off other cast members…perhaps even destroying his or her own livelihood?' There would have to a powerful inducement of some sort. But what could it be?

"How about…jealousy?" Halting in place, Remington faced Judd Owen. "What do you say to that, Mr. Owen?"

Caught off guard, Owen turned beet red and glowered as he groped for a reply.

Too late: Remington had already swung towards Morwenna Pascoe. "Or professional rivalry and frustration? Eh, Miss Pascoe?"

"A lover's conspiracy? Hm?" This was directed at Diana Bell.

Last of all was Hogarth. Remington let his eyes rest on him longer than he had the others before he spoke. "Or a thirty-year enmity become intolerable, thanks to daily proximity and the near infallible ability one party developed for goading the other to the limit?"

Unlike his employees, Hogarth wasn't the slightest bit tongue-tied. "I resent what you're implying, Steele-!"

"Implying? I don't believe I was implying anything. Merely reviewing the possible motives for sabotage. And murder."

"Murder?" piped up Jeremy Thorpe.

"Oh, yes. If St. Mark died as a result of a staged accident, it may mean our perpetrator has committed manslaughter at the very least. Of course there's no predicting what view the police will take. They might call it murder in the first degree."

Another low murmur arose from the cast. Watching from the sidelines, Laura noted how tightly Wycliffe was clenching his hands together on the tabletop. Oliver Arundel, by contrast, lounged in his chair, the image of graceful unconcern.

"Motive, as I've already mentioned, is important," Remington went on. "However, every good detective knows it's only part of the story. There's means, and there's opportunity. Thanks to a little test devised by Mrs. Steele and myself, we've become fairly certain that a number of you either hadn't the opportunity to arrange the accidents, or didn't avail yourselves of it, no matter how compelling jealousy, or career frustration, or a love triangle, seem to be. And anyway, circumstances were pointing us in another direction. Towards the second party in the bitter feud I referred to a moment ago. Aubrey St. Mark."

At the sound of St. Mark's name, Diana Bell lifted a hand in an involuntary gesture of protest, but checked herself. "That's not the Aubrey I knew," objected Denis Paige. "He loved the theater too much to harm it in any way."

"You're daft, man," said Lachlan Ford. "The only thing St. Mark loved was St. Mark."

"I can totally see him doing it," said Cledwyn Rhys.

"So can I," said Baird Kennicot.

"Should we be talking about him like this?" Lizbeth Lyons was addressing the table at large. "I mean, we've only just come back from his funeral."

Owen shot her a contemptuous glance. "Shut up."

"Well, I'm sorry! It just doesn't seem right, when he's not here to defend himself!"

"Aubrey would want his name cleared, if he was innocent," said Arundel. "Or to have the blame laid properly at his door if he was guilty."

Remington was looking at the former BBC star, a level, inscrutable look. "Quite," he agreed dryly. "Shall I continue?"

Without waiting for a reply, he resumed his summation. "As I was saying, Mrs. Steele and I were convinced we had our man. So convinced, as it happens, that we arrived here on Saturday fully intending to avert whatever catastrophe St. Mark had cooked up to ruin the Dress Circle performance that evening. Imagine our surprise upon finding him dead at the foot of the cellar stairs during intermission…the victim of exactly the sort of 'accident' we'd feared he was preparing for someone else.

"We weren't sure what to make of it at first. Could the man have blundered into his own trap, we asked each other? Or, ironically, had the curse he believed in with all his heart claimed him, of all people? But in detective work as in life, the simplest solution is often the best."

Here Remington paused once more for emphasis—a trick, he'd admitted to Laura long ago, he'd picked up from Peter Lorre's Mr. Moto. Wherever he'd gotten it from, it was very impressive.

He said: "Murder. Premeditated, calculated and cold-blooded."

No one ventured a word in response. In the utter stillness the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead was audible. By now Wycliffe, moistening his lips, was pale with anxiety.

"The motive? Revenge. 'A dish which people of taste prefer to eat cold.' Dennis Price to Alec Guinness, _Kind Hearts and Coronets, _1949. Makes sense, doesn't it? If you'd just been humiliated in front of the entire cast of _Hamlet_ by your longtime rival-someone who'd been nothing but a thorn in your side since you'd won the job of executive director—wouldn't you want to get even with him, too?"

The import was sinking in; Laura could see it happening as the actors turned to Hogarth. His face was drained of color, like his father's, and he was minus his usual air of command. Instead he was saying in a hoarse, shaky voice, "No—no. I didn't. For God's sake, I didn't _kill_ him…"

"Didn't you?" Remington was relentless. "Didn't you argue with St. Mark about his costume when he delivered the news that he was filing an injunction against Hambeth-?"

"Yes, I did, but-"

"-Damage the railing on the cellar stairway on Saturday afternoon, after the last cast members had stepped out for lunch and a film-?"

"—_No_-!"

"-Plant a suggestion that lured him into cold storage during intermission, where you conveniently 'discovered' his body the same time Mrs. Steele and I did-?"

Suddenly metal grated on tile as a chair was shoved backwards from the table. On his feet Wycliffe shouted, "Stop this, John! Stop it at once! It wasn't my son who killed Aubrey-it was me! _I'm_ your man!"

It was the moment the Steeles had been waiting for. Across the space between them flashed a gleam of satisfaction too fleeting for anyone to intercept.

Wycliffe's colleagues didn't know what to think of his confession, and their expressions, running the gamut from thunderstruck to bewildered, showed it. Hogarth was among the latter. "What are you doing?" he asked. From beside her father-in-law Diana Bell was trying to urge him to sit back down.

Wycliffe didn't pay any attention to them. By no stretch of the imagination a tall man, he nevertheless seemed to have added inches to his stature as he faced off against Remington. "I did it," he said again. "I'm the one responsible. Leave Edmund out of it."

"You're admitting you killed St. Mark?"

"I overheard him arguing with Edmund. He didn't come only to threaten him with an injunction. If Edmund didn't step down from his position at once, he said, he would go to the trustees first and the press second with the story of the affair with Lizbeth. I had to stop him."

Again Remington glanced over at Laura, only this was a plea for help. They'd agreed beforehand that he was to run the interview; it was the obvious solution to the criticism he'd leveled at her potential lack of sensitivity in handling the old man. Now, with the case hanging in the balance, it was himself he didn't trust to get it right.

Smoothly she moved back into position next to him. "How?" she asked Wycliffe.

"Edmund hid the costume Aubrey designed down in cold storage. Aubrey made him tell him where it was and forced him to give him the key. I thought, if I could loosen the railing before he went down, it would make it look like he'd had an accident…"

Hogarth was poised to interject; Laura shook her head at him. "About what time would you say that was?" she asked Wycliffe.

"Lunch time, I believe. Yes, I'm sure that's right. I remember because you and—and John-you dropped by my dressing room not long afterward."

"And you told us about the argument. Do you remember that?"

"Did I? I suppose I must have, if you say I did."

"You told us St. Mark had hidden the other costume and dared your son to find it."

Laura was working hard to maintain a mild, unthreatening tone while pointing out the inconsistency in his story, but it didn't make much difference. The tremor in his hands was evidence that she'd rattled him. Likely he would've been incapable of further speech if Remington hadn't prompted, "And then what?"

"Aubrey had a habit of arriving an hour or two early on the night of a performance. I made sure to be here when he did. And when he went down cellar for his costume…I saw my chance, and followed him."

"Did anyone see you?" This from Laura.

"No, we were entirely alone in the theater. I…waited for him at the top of the stairs …we had words…I pushed him, and he fell."

"Before the play started."

"Yes."

"And you're sure he was dead?"

"Yes."

"But how can that be? Everybody in this room saw him go on as The Ghost as scheduled. He gave the performance of a lifetime."

"No. No. It was an illusion, all an illusion. You see…I played The Ghost that night."

Clamor among the Hambeth cast. The most agitated was Hogarth, who by now was pleading with his father. "Dad, don't do this. Please, _please_, don't do this-"

Refusing to be distracted, Laura held Wycliffe's gaze with her own. "We know you did."

"You do?" It came out as a gasp. "How?"

"St. Mark couldn't possibly have been on stage. And you're the only one who could've imitated him so perfectly."

"And put together such a clever disguise into the bargain," put in Remington. "Complete with costume…and boots."

"Mr. Wycliffe, would you like to hear you what the doctor who examined St. Mark's body told Mr. Steele and me?" Laura went on. " 'If I hadn't just seen that man on stage with my own eyes, I would've sworn he died at least four hours ago'. Yet you claim you killed St. Mark an hour before curtain, maybe two. A little at odds with Dr. Diaz's professional assessment, wouldn't you agree?"

Wycliffe glanced from her to Remington with eyes grown huge and panicked; Remington moved around the table to lay a hand on his friend's shoulder. His voice was very gentle as he asked, "How did you loosen the railing, Peter?"

So full of trust was Wycliffe's expression, it was plain he'd forgiven Remington for concealing his identity as well as forgotten it. "Why, with a screwdriver."

Remington reached into an inner jacket pocket. The screwdriver he pulled out wasn't the one Laura had discovered at the foot of the cellar stairs, but the same brand and model: a six-inch Craftsman flathead with a red handle.

"Like this one?" he said.

Wycliffe bent close, peering, nodded his agreement.

"You couldn't have," Laura said bluntly. "Those screws hadn't been disturbed for fifty years or more. We checked when we got here. You would've needed some kind of power tool to pry them off. You brought a screwdriver from home and left it at the scene in hopes of diverting suspicion away from someone else."

On cue, Remington chimed in: "You didn't kill Aubrey St. Mark, Peter. You're protecting the person who did, or you think you are. Aren't you?"

Dead silence had gripped the room for the second time. For a beat or two Wycliffe blinked and struggled to speak. And then, in a movement he was powerless to control, his gaze flicked over to Hogarth.

Bingo, thought Laura.

Aloud she said, "You found St. Mark's body early Saturday afternoon and assumed your son had killed him. So you came up with a plan to make it appear as if he died much later, while your son was occupied elsewhere, in front of hundreds of witnesses. And when it looked like Mr. Steele and I were getting too close to the truth a few minutes ago, you came forward to take the blame."

In lieu of an answer Wycliffe gave a low groan and sagged into his chair. Once he was in it, Diana Bell put her arms around him. Across the table Hogarth had bowed his head and hidden his face in his hands.

"We understand why you did what you did," Remington said. "But there's no need for it. Your son didn't kill St. Mark, either."

The relief that swept over Wycliffe's face was heartrending to watch. "You're sure of that?" he asked.

"Unless new evidence that tells a different story turns up," said Laura.

"If Peter didn't kill St. Mark, and Hogarth didn't, who did?" demanded Andy Treacher in his first contribution to the conversation.

"Excellent question," replied Remington. "It's what we've invited Mr. Arundel to help us figure out, seeing how much light he's already shed for us on the curse. But a moment, ladies and gentlemen, while I return to a point I made earlier."

As soon as he and Laura had publicly exonerated Wycliffe, he'd regained his emotional footing; he was the great Remington Steele once more, exuding boundless self-confidence. "I alluded to the fact that Mrs. Steele and I dreamed up a test to determine which of you had the opportunity to arrange the accidents," he said. "Our preliminary observations led us to St. Mark. Just lately, however, we learned something that made us question that assumption. And it meant further investigation was in order." He turned to Diana Bell. "Mrs. Hogarth? If I could prevail on you-?"

"Of course." Diana Bell met the eyes of her cast mates. "Mrs. Steele—Laura—phoned this morning and confided who she really is, and what she and her husband have been doing here the past few weeks. I must say it didn't come entirely as a surprise. I'd already discovered she's quite a talented actress. Now I realize how she acquired her experience." The smile she sent Laura was warm with affection.

Bell continued, "She said she had a very personal question to ask, which she understood I might be reluctant to answer. Or if I did answer, I might prefer to keep it between the two of us. If that was the case, she'd respect my privacy. I thought it was very sweet, very considerate of her. But as soon as I heard her story, I knew I'd have to speak out."

There was movement on the other side of the table: Hogarth raising his head. He was wearing the dazed, uncomprehending look of a sleepwalker.

"She and Mr. Steele had reason to believe Mark was the one who'd stolen the weapons from the props room," Bell said. "They almost caught him trying to return them last Wednesday night. Or thought they had. But they were beginning to wonder whether they hadn't jumped to conclusions. Did I have any information that would convince them one way or the other?" She paused to take a breath and then said steadily, "Yes, I do. It wasn't Mark…it couldn't have been. Because he was with me that night."

In another time and place, a statement like Bell's would've elicited winks and nudges and salacious grins and whispers from the group gathered in the rehearsal hall. Here no one said a word. No one looked at Hogarth, either. No one, that was, but his wife, who faced him without flinching.

"There's a little place up the coast where we liked to go for dinner and dancing. We got there around six-thirty. By the time we left it was well after ten."

"Would anyone remember you were there?" said Laura. "Would they corroborate your story?"

"Oh, yes. We were regulars. They knew us by name."

Her words snapped Hogarth back to himself. "So he stole you from me at last," he said, his voice harsh and ragged.

"Oh, Edmund. He did nothing of the kind."

"He did. He did. Just like I did with Polly-"

"Stop it!" Bell was the angriest the Steeles had ever seen her. "This isn't the fifties, and I'm not Polly Cavanaugh. When will you stop living in the past? You're fighting battles that were over and done with thirty years ago!"

"How can you say that, when you just admitted you were having an affair with him-?"

"He was my friend. _My friend_. Oh, he wanted more than that…at one point he even asked me to marry him. But I told him no, my marriage vows mean something to me. And do you know, he still wanted to be my friend, even after I turned him down?" For the first time Bell wavered on the verge of tears. "Now he's gone…and you and I are still here. What are we going to do about that, Edmund?"

Clearly the Hogarths were locked in their private pain. To deflect attention from them, Remington deftly switched from the personal back to the criminal. "All of which leads us back to the proverbial square one," he said. "Who has it in for Hambeth, and why? Take the accident with the musket. Mr. Arundel, you were on stage when it happened. Bullet missed you by mere inches, didn't it?"

"That's right."

"Really?" asked Laura. "Because according to Mr. Hogarth's notes—the detailed notes he keeps on the blocking and staging of every scene of every play—your mark was nowhere near the extra who was using that particular musket. In fact you were well to the left of him, with Simon Glasslough and Jeremy Thorpe between you."

Arundel shifted uneasily in his chair even as Remington fired a question at Andy Treacher. "And Mr. Treacher. I distinctly recall you hanging about the stage at the first rehearsal Mrs. Steele and I attended, the one where I had the pleasure of substituting for Mr. Rhys…and where he was wounded by that uncapped rapier. Yet there was no reason for you to be there, was there? By the final scene, to quote the words of the immortal Bard, 'Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead'."

Every trace of his usual good humor had deserted Treacher. "Are you accusing me of something? Because if you are, let's hear it."

"Rapier-tampering comes to mind. And that's just for starters."

Robbing Treacher of even a second in which to think, Laura's next remark overlapped Remington's. "What concerns me is that in last year's production of _Romeo and Juliet_, Max Yarborough outfitted you with a left-handed pistol for Mercutio's duel with Tybalt. Now Max and Mr. Hogarth are both sticklers for authentic detail, I know. Could it be they were aware you couldn't handle the safety on a regular gun convincingly? So they decided to make it easier on you? One way to find out…"

As she spoke she'd opened her purse and retrieved something from it: the very gun she was talking about. The actors nearest her shrank back at the sight of it. "Relax," she said. "It's not loaded." To Treacher she added, "Heads up, Andy." And with a casual but disciplined motion of the accurate throwing arm she'd developed under Jack Holt's tutelage, she tossed the pistol straight at him.

Instinctively Treacher flung up a hand to catch it, more to protect himself from being hit in the face than anything else. A slow grin curved Remington's lips. "Ah, a southpaw, I see. Just like my wife."

"Since when is that a crime?" said Treacher.

"It isn't," replied Laura. "But it _is_ an interesting coincidence. Whoever tried to return the weapons to props last Wednesday night shot at me—or else his accomplice did. The shell casings we found next morning indicated it could've been a left-hander's gun. Are you a registered gun owner, Andy? Can it stand up to a ballistics test?"

Now Remington took over again, focusing on Oliver Arundel. "Speaking of Wednesday night, we understand from our assistant that you dined at Chasen's with your agent."

"I did. We were celebrating my part on _L.A. Law_." Unlike Treacher, Arundel was visibly nervous, all perspiration-beaded forehead and darting eyes."

"You'll be pleased to know your agent backs you up. Too bad the hostess at Chasen's doesn't agree with him," said Laura.

"Big fan of yours," Remington commented. "Absolutely loved you as Frank Gresham. Could've picked you out of a crowd of hundreds. Pity she never got to meet you, when one considers how truly appreciative of your loyal fans you are."

He would've continued, but he was interrupted by Treacher climbing to his feet. "Okay, I don't know about Oliver here, but I've had just about enough. So the accidents weren't accidental? I can buy that. But why are you trying to pin them on us? I've got no reason to make trouble for Hambeth. I love this place! I left Stratford on purpose to work with these people!"

It was the first serious challenge to the Steeles' strategy. Contrary to the usual mechanics of their partnership, they carefully refrained from glancing at one another lest they give themselves away. Because the truth was, they'd walked into the rehearsal hall an hour ago with nothing to go on but a combination of circumstantial evidence, conjecture and instinct. There wasn't a shred of solid proof to incriminate either Treacher or Arundel. Remington and Laura were relying on rapid-fire tag-teaming, spinning an impenetrable web of words, knocking the two men off balance and holding them there, to achieve their desired results. Unless they could maneuver one or both of them into confessing, the Hambeth case would end up as one of Remington Steele Investigations' more spectacular failures.

But maybe, just maybe, Treacher had handed them an opening they could take advantage of.

At least Laura saw it that way, and pounced.

"Are you sure about that?" she asked Treacher. "Or are you more like Rosencrantz than you care to admit?"

"What are you talking about?"

"When we first met, you told me your family donates a lot of money to the arts. What you didn't say was that their main beneficiary is Stratford. Not to mention they're major stakeholders in the town. Hotels…restaurants…the catering contract within the theater complex."

Treacher didn't answer. The other actors, filling the unfamiliar role of spectators, were following the exchange wide-eyed.

"It's funny, the privileges a kid whose parents own ninety-nine percent of Ontario gets to enjoy," mused Laura. "And when they're underwriting a third of a theater's annual budget? Who's going to stop him from hanging around backstage? Bet you can learn a lot about light boards and stage weapons that way. Putting scenery together, too. And taking it apart."

"Perhaps some experience with electronic alarms and how to disarm them, eh?" suggested Remington. "With a smidgen of lock-picking on the side?"

All the time he and Laura were baiting Treacher, they were unobtrusively edging closer to him while keeping a wary eye on Arundel. Laura said, "You're didn't come to Hambeth to act, Andy. You're here to size up the competition and put it out of commission. And when you found it was too much for one man to handle, you persuaded Arundel to help you. It couldn't have been difficult. All you had to do was dangle the promise of a contract at Stratford."

"Ironic, isn't it, that the two men playing a character who meant to betray Hamlet should turn out to be the traitors in Hambeth's midst," observed Remington.

It was hard to tell what Treacher was thinking. Certainly he looked undaunted—defiant, even—in the face of the Steeles' accusations. "I'd like to see you prove it. And even if you can, where's the harm? Who's gonna care about a few pranks-?"

"A good many people, I'd imagine, including the authorities," Remington said sharply. "A man died here three days ago, or have you forgotten? You were here Saturday afternoon; we met you on your way out. It's well within the realm of possibility that you overheard the argument between Hogarth and St. Mark and afterwards loosened the railing. Eh?"

Now Laura took over the offensive, pressing the point home. "Why? Who were you hoping to hurt? Hogarth? A random cast or crew member? Or maybe you were counting on it being St. Mark—a man whose looks you've always resented because they cheated you out of the leading man roles you believe you were meant to play. Murder as a path to career advancement. Nasty but effective. "

"But Andy didn't mean to kill him!" Arundel burst out. "It was supposed to be an accident, like"—he began to falter as it dawned on him what he was saying—"like the others."

They'd done it. As Arundel's exclamation died away, the Steele telegraphed their triumph to one another. In the space of an hour, they'd achieved everything they'd set out to do: proved the curse was superstitious nonsense, pinpointed the source of the mishaps and put an end to them, unmasked St. Mark's killer. And, most critical of all, saved Wycliffe from shouldering the guilt for a murder he didn't commit.

Yes, they'd done it—but it wasn't over. For Hogarth chose that moment to haul himself upright, capturing the Steeles' attention. It was the shortest diversion imaginable. Even so it was enough for Andy Treacher to see his window of opportunity for escape, take to his heels, and flee the room.

If he was pinning his hopes on the element of surprise, he was disappointed. Between one breath and the next Laura dropped her purse and set off in pursuit. From behind her she heard Remington's mild oath —"Blast! Stay put, everyone, leave him to us"—and his running steps as he caught up to her. Side by side they raced down the corridor that led to the auditorium.

For a long-legged man, Treacher wasn't a very strong runner; within minutes his head start had dwindled to a few yards. By the time he ran to earth in the Garrick, plowing through the double doors into the auditorium, the Steeles were only five or six strides off his pace.

Which made it all the more mystifying, once they, too, had made it inside. Because in the dim light from the security lamps and exit sign, Treacher was nowhere to be seen.

In the stillness Remington and Laura glanced to the right and left, alert for the slightest sound or motion. Nothing stirred. There was no way out except the door through which they'd entered, they knew, since on off nights the Garrick's emergency exits were locked. That meant Treacher was still here. He had to be.

"What in blazes is he playing at?" asked Remington in a piercing whisper.

"I don't know, but this too much like that time in Ernest Templeton's warehouse for my comfort. Come on."

Noiselessly they ascended the stage. The set that represented Elsinore's exterior, already erected for opening night, cast angular shadows. Backstage was a gloomy pit until Remington took out the pocket flashlight he normally carried and shone it around. It illuminated equipment neatly stored and locked, a workman's toolbox and little else.

No Treacher waiting in ambush.

That left the Elsinore set. With gentle pressure at the small of Laura's back Remington started them towards the lower platform. The flashlight's beam was thin but clear, a path of white light for them to follow.

No Treacher lurking in the arches of the false doorways and windows that ran along the back wall.

They were midway across when a dark shape loomed upright on the platform above them. Barely had they registered it before it leapt for Remington. Landing heavily, Treacher knocked him off his feet and bore him to the ground.

Remington had let out a yelp of pain at initial impact and another on hitting the floor. And now all Laura could hear was the thump of flying fists making contact mingled with grunts and hoarse groans. But whose? Frantic with suspense, she couldn't tell until she'd scooped up the flashlight that had slipped from her husband's grasp as he spread his hands to break his fall.

Even then the men were grappling one another so fiercely it was hard to determine if which of them had the advantage. No sense in leaving the victory up to chance, though. Quickly she scanned the stage for a weapon of some kind: a crowbar, a two-by-four, or a hammer would do nicely…

The toolbox at stage right sprang to her remembrance. She dashed for it.

The sixteen-ounce claw hammer had a substantial heft for which she was profoundly grateful. Back on the set she circled the men, watching for her chance. Now it was Treacher who was uppermost—now Remington—now Treacher—

She braced herself, gripped the hammer firmly, and swung. Beneath the blow Treacher collapsed into immobility. He lay there, probably seeing stars, but conscious.

Remington was looking a little frayed around the edges, himself, as she knelt beside him. The teasing grin he flashed her was proof that he hadn't suffered any permanent damage to his body or his masculine ego, however. "Nice to see you haven't lost your touch, Mrs. Steele," he congratulated her.

"Thanks." She smoothed back the hair that had flopped over his forehead and with his pocket square blotted the blood trickling from his right nostril. Over her shoulder she said, "Ready to give it up, Andy? Or is more persuasion in order?"

"I give up," came the slurred reply.

"Good thinking."

The Steeles decided that of the two of them, Laura was in better condition to keep an eye on Treacher while Remington reported back to the others and called the police. He needed a little of her support to reach a standing position; once he'd gotten there, he gazed down at Treacher with disdain. "I've only one word for you, Andy, old man. 'And thus I clothe my naked villainy, With odd old ends stolen forth from holy writ, And seem a saint when most I play the devil.' Laurence Olivier as Richard the Third. London Films, 1956."

To Laura he added an aside: "Faux Shakespeare. What do you suppose Lloyd Chalmers would make of that, eh?"

She smiled up at him. "I think he'd be very proud of his grandson regardless, Mr. Steele."

* * *

There were loose ends to tie up, of course.

The Solvang police duly arrived at Remington's request to take Treacher and Arundel into custody. Detective Thogersen was paired with a younger detective instead of a rookie patrolman, but appeared not one bit abashed by his failure to follow the case to its conclusion—or to spot key pieces of evidence. "Don't see why that thing with the body's temperature should've jumped out right away, personally," he said. "But I guess crime fighting's a little different in Los Angeles." His partner rolled his eyes in a manner with which the Steeles were well acquainted.

Though most of the _Hamlet_ cast had dispersed pretty quickly as soon as the excitement was over, a few had hung around. Diana Bell was one of them. "Thank you for everything," she said as Laura approached her in her dressing room to say good-bye. "For clearing Peter's name and Edmund's…and Mark's, too."

"It was our pleasure."

"I'll be the first to admit he wasn't easy to get along with. But underneath the arrogance, he was a good man. And I loved him." Her voice quivered on the final sentence.

Laura put her arms around the other woman in a final hug from which Bell didn't pull away. "Will you be all right?" Laura asked her.

"Oh, yes. There's Kitty and Robin, you know, and the start of the new season. And Edmund's going to need help picking up the pieces, whether he knows it or not." Bell kissed Laura's cheek. "You and Remington take care of each other."

"Thank you. We will."

The last stop of all was Hogarth's office. The strain of the preceding days had begun to tell on him; it manifested itself in the pouches under his eyes and new, sharp lines etched around his mouth. The biggest change was in his attitude, which was somber and subdued.

"Mr. and Mrs. Steele." He came around his desk to shake Remington's hand and then Laura's. "What can I say? Quick, discreet and professional, exactly as you promised. No undue publicity, either. The trustees are very pleased. I believe you'll find tangible evidence of their gratitude in their final check to you." He hadn't released Laura's hand, and now he transferred his gaze to her. "Mrs. Steele, I'm afraid I owe you an apology."

"Oh? What for?"

"I treated you very shabbily in the beginning. Failed to accord you the respect your skills deserve. I didn't expect a woman in your position to perform anything like as well as a man. You've proved me wrong. Your husband's lucky to have your assistance, as am I."

It wasn't a thorough conversion, but probably the best to be expected, Laura thought. Wryly she said, "Thank you. I'm glad I could be of assistance, to you…and my husband."

Remington had put forth a concerted effort to seek out Wycliffe after Treacher and Arundel were hustled out of the building, but the old man, it seemed, had made himself scarce. So it was a complete surprise to run into him as they were exiting Hogarth's office. The wave of scarlet that washed over his face told the tale of his embarrassment at meeting them. For a moment the three of them stood in an awkward semi-circle.

"John—er—Remington. Laura," said Wycliffe at last. "What must you think of me?"

In her heels Laura was just about the same height as he was, so she looked him straight in the eye. "Honestly? You're one of the most courageous, selfless people I've ever met."

"And a proper father, loving his son," Remington added quietly.

Wycliffe's expression cleared. "You'll keep in touch? I would hate to lose sight of you after all that's happened. You've brought the past back to life for me. And maybe one day-" a hint of the old laughter glinted in his eyes "—you'll tell me the story of your name."

They exchanged a few trivialities before Wycliffe began edging towards Hogarth's closed door. "You won't mind excusing me, but…I think I'd like to check on Edmund. Make sure he's all right. It's been a dreadful day for him."

The Steeles didn't mind. But as he slipped into Hogarth's office, neither of them could resist a glance over their shoulders. What they got was a glimpse of Hogarth lifting his bowed head with an expression they'd never seen on it before. "Dad," they heard him say as Wycliffe pulled the door shut behind him.

Of all the scenes they'd witnessed at Hambeth, that was the one that stayed with Remington on the final journey home to Los Angeles.

* * *

Could he do it? he wondered as they lay in bed that night, not touching. Could he do what Wycliffe had done? Be a man, put his wife first, as Wycliffe had his son, sacrifice his desire for a child in order to give her what she needed?

There had to be an opening he could conceive, a conversational gambit where he could somehow communicate that he'd meant a baby to unite them, not divide them, and that he could abandon the idea altogether as long as he had her. Perhaps he might even convince himself in the process…

But Laura beat him to it.

"Remington?" Her voice was small and a little uncertain, he noticed, not at all a normal occurrence for her.

"Hm?"

"Can I talk to you?"

"Of course you can talk to me."

She turned onto her side facing him. It struck him that her movements were very controlled and deliberate, as if she was drawing them out as long as she could.

"I've been thinking," she said. "And I think you're right. We should have a baby."

It was what he'd been longing to hear…and yet it wasn't. At first he couldn't quite figure out why. He turned her words over in his mind, trying to penetrate what she had said to what she hadn't.

And then he knew. The silence wore on, a potential wall between them.

He was the one to break it. "But not now. Or anytime soon."

"Not now." Her gaze was almost timid—another anomaly. She was working hard, so hard, to be honest with him. He had to admire it, no matter that the outcome wasn't precisely what he'd hoped.

"Are you mad?" she asked.

"Sad, perhaps. I'd begun to look forward to it. But I can live with it."

"Really? You're not just saying that to make me feel better?"

"I didn't wait for you all those years only to give you up at the first hurdle. I'd have lived with your decision either way, Laura."

"I never meant to hurt you. I'm sorry." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm just scared."

He gathered her to him and held her close, lips against her hair. "I know."

"I want you to be happy. And I do, I do want to have your baby. But I'm not ready to be a mother. Not until I've figured out how to do it right. So I don't make the same mistakes my father did."

"I know, my love. It's okay."

"And…I'm not ready to give up the agency, either."

Puzzlement wrinkled his brow. "Who says you'd have to give it up?"

"I do." She was sounding more like herself by now, and looking like herself, too, with her determined little chin tilted at a familiar angle. He considered it a positive development. "You asked me once, remember? Would I go on working if I had children?"

"As I recall, the subject hadn't crossed your mind."

"Well, it has now. What we do for a living is too risky. All it would take is for a shooter to have a lucky day, and wham! It's over for one of us. We both know what it's like to grow up without two parents. That's not what I want for our children."

For an instant he privately savored her second reference to "children" in the plural.

"So we'll have to look for another line of work. What sounds appealing, Mr. Steele?"

Getting into the spirit of the thing, he cocked his head and pursed his mouth in thought. "Tour guides?" he suggested after a beat or two. "We were rather good at it. And there's never a dull moment, apparently."

"I was thinking more along the lines of an art gallery. I'd run the business end, you'd handle sales and acquisitions and client relations."

"Laura. Do you honestly believe that's a viable alternative for a former thief?"

"A reformed thief. There's a big difference." She was quiet for a bit, studying him with infinite tenderness in her dark eyes. "You're going to be a wonderful father."

What she said, and the conviction with which she said it, gave his heart a queer twist he couldn't have begun to describe. To hide how much it moved him he said lightly, "Think so?"

"I know so. I can see you now, teaching him to walk…giving him airplane rides…drawing pictures for him…I can see him, too. Our baby."

"The first one's to be a boy, is it?"

"An adorable little boy with dark hair…blue, blue eyes…and beautiful hands. Like his daddy."

"I've been picturing a little girl. One who'll grow up knowing her father will never leave her."

He heard her breath catch in her throat. Her smile was crooked with the effort to hold back tears, but very sweet. "She will?"

"Nothing on earth'll tear him away. From her…or her mother. That's a promise, Laura. And I mean to keep it." He inclined to her, an invitation for her to kiss him.

She did, softly, his face cupped between her hands, and pulled back slowly. "Thanks."

"What for?"

"For being patient with me. For saying the right thing. For understanding."

"I'm learning, at any rate."

Without removing his arms from around her, he stretched his length more comfortably in the bed; she gave a contented sigh as she nestled against him and laid her head on his chest. "Tell me about our little girl," she said.

"Hankering after a bedtime story, are we?"

"Nobody does it better than you do."

"Well, let's see. She'll be tiny, but exquisite. Her mother's daughter, obviously."

"Obviously."

"Absolutely fearless, of course. A champion of anyone and anything in need. Home'll be a menagerie full of puppies and kittens and rabbits she's rescued from death."

"Sounds like we're going to need a bigger house."

"Possibly. Possibly…There won't be anything she can't do. Run like the wind in high heels, or solve a math problem that has her schoolmates completely flummoxed. Play piano like an angel, or throw a wicked curveball. She'll speak fluent French and Italian and cook like a Cordon Bleu chef. Daddy'll see to that."

"Something tells me that even though she'll be my daughter, she's going to be Daddy's little girl."

"Oh, without question." He smiled down at her. "But Mummy will always be the love of Daddy's life."

She answered him with the full, delicious, dimpled smile that no other woman could match, as far as he was concerned.

They were up for hours after that, talking about everything and nothing, mapping out their future. Midnight had come and long gone before they finally fell asleep. And when they did, it was cradled in each other's arms.

Meanwhile, in the editing suite of her small but well-appointed house in Laurel Canyon, the L.A. Press Club's Newsman of the year and Spotlight News' lead anchor had just finished the voice-overs for the first tape of a five-part exposé documenting the activities of Remington Steele, alias Jean Murrell, alias Paul Fabrini, on the Riviera.

And westward on Wilshire, Mr. Niemand, aka Ross Elliot, aka Tony Roselli, whose arrival in Los Angeles had pre-dated Mildred Krebs' frightened prediction by a full two weeks, was concealed in the rear of a sleek gray van, running the transcript of a days' worth of conversations recorded off a wiretap at Remington Steele Investigations.

There were fewer than forty-eight hours left before four separate lives would irresistibly collide.

TO BE CONTINUED


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

**A/N: Please stay tuned for Chapter 16—Remington's POV, one final twist, and the conclusion.**

**Also, I'd love to know if you liked it. Please review.**

**~MG**

* * *

It was all Mr. Cresswell's fault.

The drama of the Hambeth wrap-up notwithstanding, Laura had stuck with single-minded doggedness to her goal of leaving Wednesday night for Connecticut, and her determination had paid off handsomely. By one on Wednesday afternoon the agency's calendar was clear, the preliminary research on the fake Steele completed, and she and Remington were packed, their luggage waiting at Windsor Square for Fred to pick up en route to driving them to LAX. Their non-stop flight was to depart for Hartford at nine fifty-seven.

But she'd reckoned without Gene Creswell, the self-billed Jewelry Sultan of southern California.

"You don't understand, Mr. Steele," he said in a hastily convened meeting in Remington's office. He'd decided to drop by to make a personal pitch after receiving Mildred's phone call in which she scheduled Remington's first visit to Cresswell's flagship store for two weeks in the future. "It's not just product that's at risk. It's my designs—bold, one-of-a-kind designs—designs my competitors would kill to get their hands on. If you don't start on the security plans soon, I stand to lose thousands—tens of thousands—hundreds of-"

"Thank you, yes, Mrs. Steele and I are getting the picture," Remington said, cutting him off before he could spin out of control. "You told us last week your current system's served you well for five years. Are you certain the situation's deteriorated so badly since then?"

"Timing, Mr. Steele," Cresswell said darkly. "In the jewelry business, timing is everything. What would you guess is our biggest concern when springtime rolls around?"

"Er…Easter? Mother's Day?"

Cresswell shook his head. "Our fall collections. And mine is so potentially amazing—so far beyond what the common herd has cooked up—the competition will dare absolutely anything to get a peek at it. And if they succeed, and rush my designs into production, and market them even _one day ahead of me_, I'll be a ruined man. Ruined."

Remington and Laura looked at each other. "We'd love to help, Mr. Cresswell-" Laura began.

"Gene."

"Gene. We really would. But there's a case on the East Coast that requires our immediate presence. And-"

"I'll triple your usual fee if you stay in town just one more day and visit a few of my stores," Creswell pleaded. "And work on your security recommendations during your free time while you're away."

The allusion to easy cash sparked the usual glint in Remington's eye. To shield her carefully laid plans from its pernicious influence, Laura said quickly, "But we couldn't take your money under those conditions. It wouldn't be right. Perhaps we could recommend another agency-"

"I don't want another agency. I want Remington Steele."

Laura opened her mouth to argue, but Remington forestalled her, grasping her hand and pulling her towards her office. "A moment, Gene, while Mrs. Steele and I consult. Back in a flash."

Once there, he applied himself to the task of getting around her objections by stroking her ego—one of the con man's wiles he would probably never completely abandon. "You know how much I've always admired your scruples. They've been a genuine inspiration to a flawed character like yours truly. But couldn't we make an exception in this case?"

"You mean cheat that man out of his hard-earned money?"

"I wouldn't call it cheating, exactly. More like encouraging the free flow of commerce. After all, your country was founded on the principle that a man's money is his to spend as he pleases."

"Surely you're not suggesting what I suspect you are, Mr. Steele. Postpone our trip? Again?"

"Only by a few hours. Let's say we re-schedule our flight for tomorrow afternoon. In the morning we split up, divide and conquer Mr. Creswell's stores and converge on the airport from wherever our travels have led us. We'll be in Connecticut by nine o'clock. In the meantime we'll have satisfied our new client and earned—well, a tidy sum indeed."

His reasoning was impeccable, if not immediately compelling. She gazed up at him from under her brows, considering it.

"Twelve hours, Laura. How much more damage could he do in twelve hours than he's caused already, our shadow Steele?"

He seemed to interpret her silence as a signal for him to continue. "Three times our normal fee. What a windfall that would be, eh? Something to put by for a rainy day…feed a third mouth, when it comes along…invest for a college education…"

She was wavering and knew it. In her own defense, how could she help it, when he refused to play fair? Weaving in references to last night's conversation was an unmistakable appeal to her softer side. And now that they knew where they stood on the issue of having children, she could enjoy his comment for what it was: proof of his delight at the prospect of one day being a father, instead of a form of manipulation.

"All right," she said at last. "You win. But just so you know, I'll expect you to deliver the goods as soon as we get home."

She'd lost him, and he told her so.

"Cresswell's plans? You'll have to work on them every night while we're on the road. If we're going to take the man up on his offer, we should at least make sure we give him his money's worth. Deal?"

He declared that it was.

In the afternoon, as Mildred devoted her computer wizardry to re-shuffling their travel itinerary, the Steeles devised a plan of attack for the following day. What they hit on was: Laura would head out early to Cresswell's Thousand Oaks store, where the burglary that had prompted him to seek them out in the first place had taken occurred. After that she'd stop at the Encino location as she made her way towards LAX. Remington would stick closer to home, the flagship store in Glendale and then southward to Santa Monica. To save time, they'd drive separately to the airport. Fred could always chauffeur Mildred over to pick up the Rabbit from airlines parking.

The Steeles spent a quiet, uneventful evening at Windsor Square, ordering in Chinese and eating it together in front of the TV in the den. Later Remington flipped desultorily back and forth between movie channels while Laura sat with her feet in his lap and wrote out instructions to the cleaning lady for keeping the house up during their absence. Around nine o'clock they turned in and fell right to sleep in his favorite position, he spooned behind her, she with her hands clasping his.

It was a night that would linger in their memories long, long into the future.

Everything continued to flow smoothly and efficiently the next morning, just the way Laura liked it. She was operating in the same mode. That was why the frisson of emotion she felt on parting from her husband took her by surprise. True, he was wearing the suit she liked best, a lightweight wool in silver gray paired with an ice-blue tie; the combination set off the gloss of his dark hair and turned his eyes bluer than the bluest sapphire. And he had on a spicy cologne that made him smell downright delectable. But that didn't adequately explain the poignant ache at her heart, a reminder of how incredibly dear he was to her, or her tighter-than-usual grip on his upper arms as he leaned down to kiss her goodbye.

He must've felt the pressure, for he backed off just far enough to search her eyes. With the gleam of amusement that was uniquely his, he said, "Miss me already?"

"You're just too damn sexy for your own good. Not to mention mine."

"You do realize we're embarking on a new experience for me, traveling the eastern part of your country."

"Except for New York. Remember?"

"How could I forget? One incredibly decadent weekend in the Big Apple, followed by three days of near-deprivation and pennilessness in the City of Angels. Life on the streets had a saving grace, though."

"A nun, an Irishman, five jockeys and a mobster named Pittsburgh Phil?"

"You, of course." He kissed her again. "Only you could make sleeping beneath a freeway overpass bearable."

"Well, we won't be doing any of that this time around. But we _will_ start taking our agency back. I may be willing to give it up to have a baby, but I'm damned if anyone's going to steal it from us."

Fred chose that moment to sweep up the driveway to pick up their luggage and shuttle Remington to Cresswell's in Glendale. Soon Laura was heading in the opposite direction, fedora tilted at a jaunty angle. The spring sun was bright, the westbound Hollywood and Ventura Freeways busy but navigable, and in under an hour and fifteen minutes she and Cresswell's general manager were starting off on a guided tour of the Thousand Oaks store.

The building was constructed so that the showroom was two stories tall, with a vaulted ceiling and a staircase at the rear that led to a second-floor gallery. Offices and workrooms were located on the gallery level. Rapidly Laura sketched the layout—not with as much as skill as Remington, she was the first admit, but then again, she didn't have years of experience in plotting complicated heists to fall back on, either.

Interviews with the staff followed the tour. The robbery had taken place on a Saturday night, taking advantage of the fact that Cresswell's didn't open until noon on Sundays. Though there were signs of forced entry, the alarm hadn't been tripped, giving rise to suspicions that it was an inside job. The managers, bookkeeper and clerks were able to produce alibis that were plausible on the surface. Whether they would hold up under more intense scrutiny remained to be seen.

Finally she assessed the current security set-up. The hardware was top-notch, which told her that Cresswell had solicited expert advice somewhere along the line. Its configuration could definitely be improved. And there were internal protocols the Steele agency could suggest that would tighten the gaps in staff procedures. All in all, there was scope for good work here. Laura was pleased she and Remington had accepted the case.

At the Encino store she repeated the process; by the time she'd finished, she had a neat sheaf of notes to turn over to her husband. A wicked grin tugged the corners of her mouth as she pictured him working away through them night after night in whatever hotel room they were staying out east. Maybe it would teach him there really was no such thing as easy money.

At last she was ready to leave for LAX. The weather was so gorgeous, even for a month notable for sunshine and pleasant temperatures, that she put the Rabbit's top down and tossed her fedora into the back seat. Might as well soak up the warmth in anticipation of chilly Connecticut. Goodness only knew when she'd see the California sun again.

She'd just reached the second to last exit west of the 105 when her mobile phone rang. It could only be Remington or Mildred, probably to report a snag in their travel plans; quickly she scooped up the handset. But before she could frame a greeting, her husband demanded, "Where are you?"

"Just coming up on the 105. Why?"

"Take the next exit and find somewhere to pull off the road."

She'd never heard him use that authoritarian tone before, not in all the years she'd known him. Instantly her aggression level went rocketing into the stratosphere. "I'm fifteen minutes away from the airport-!"

That failed to persuade him to dial it down the tiniest bit. "Just do what I ask for once without arguing, would you please?"

Mouth tight with annoyance, she laid the phone aside and concentrated on maneuvering rightward to the off ramp. There was a McDonalds no more than a hundred yards east of the service drive—as good a spot as any to stop, she supposed, as she coasted into the parking lot. She didn't pick up the phone again until she'd shifted into neutral and set the handbrake.

"All right, I'm here. Care to tell me what's so urgent? And it better be good."

"You're parked? Hands off the steering wheel, key out of the ignition?"

He was still barking out orders? Well, she'd see about that. "You're skating on very thin ice right now, Mr. Steele," she said crisply.

Silence on the other end. "I'm sorry," he said, and he really did sound contrite. "It's only I've some news for you…and I didn't want to break it while you were driving…" He faltered for a beat. Then he said: "Windsor Thomas is dead. Murdered."

"What? When? How do you know?"

"I found her. That's how."

"You…found her-?" Laura heard herself repeat it stupidly, not once, but twice. "_You_ found her. Where?"

"At her home. Shot through the heart, apparently."

"When?"

"About an hour ago. I've been trying to ring you on and off ever since. But Laura, wait til you hear the rest. She'd finished the story identifying me as Jean Murrell. And she meant to start airing it on Monday."

"Oh, dear God." It was a frightened gasp, closely followed by a gust of anger she didn't bother to suppress. "What were you _doing_ there? You were supposed to be in Glendale schmoozing Gene Cresswell!"

"I was. I did. But it occurred to me on the way to Santa Monica that the agency gun might come in handy on our trip. It couldn't hurt to stop, I thought…and then Windsor called…"

Worse and worse. Gripping the steering wheel with shaking hands, Laura leaned her forehead against it and closed her eyes. Windsor Thomas murdered. Her story and the evidence she'd uncovered on the Riviera most likely in the hands of the production crew at Spotlight News. And Remington entering her house in broad daylight with a gun in his possession, if not exactly on his person…

How the hell was Laura going to rescue him from this one?

She straightened and said sharply into the receiver: "You'd better start from the beginning. And if you're hoping for even a prayer of proving you're innocent, don't leave anything out."

He didn't, as far as she could tell. It was a simple story, easy to summarize in a few minutes. Mindful of Armand Lortie's letter, he'd judged it prudent to take Windsor's call when Mildred buzzed to announce it. Windsor had opened the conversation with her usual sexy banter before proceeding to the point. Did he remember the promise she'd made him at the Press Club banquet? About how she would warn if she ever cracked the mystery of his identity and was ready to take it live? He should consider himself warned-unless, of course, he preferred to discuss it in private first. Because it went without saying that she was always open to…negotiations.

Laura interrupted him at that juncture with a derisive laugh. "So much for journalistic integrity. Then what?"

Immediately he and Fred had set off for Laurel Canyon. Upon arrival he found the front door open and ajar, Windsor non-responsive both to his knock and the doorbell. After a few seconds of indecision, he cautiously let himself in. Considering the innuendo with which she'd wound up her phone call, he could only surmise there was in store for him an embarrassing come-on that would take every ounce of tact at his disposal to defuse. Windsor naked or considerably underdressed in a come-hither pose was what he expected to find. Stumbling across her slumped back in a chair behind the desk of what seemed to be a fully equipped video editing suite, a gaping, blackened hole in her chest, blood everywhere…To say he was shocked was an understatement of the highest magnitude.

Once he was capable of something resembling coherent thought, his first reaction was he ought to call the police. A tricky proposition, in his view, requiring a plausible excuse for his presence on the scene in the first place. What was he supposed to say? That the dead woman had the goods on him, and he'd come at her invitation to persuade her out of using them against him? He might as well have driven to the station and given himself up then and there. The end result would've been the same.

Instead he did what any man with a healthy instinct for self-preservation would: got the hell out, and didn't look back.

That explained his earlier surliness to some degree, Laura thought, not that it mattered anymore. But if his panic had since abated, hers was just beginning. And there was something else, something she couldn't yet name—or didn't want to look at too closely. Fiercely she fought it down. It was a difficult feat to manage, and in the process she missed most of Remington's next comment.

"—that I'm being framed for her murder," he was saying. "There's no other explanation for it."

"I think you're right, but let's put it aside for the moment. Did you check for anything incriminating before you left? Anything that could point a finger at you, however insignificant?"

"As best I could without benefit of gloves. No files, no photos, not even an appointment calendar with my name penciled in. No videotape, either, that I could find."

"Did anyone see you? Going in or coming out?"

"I don't think so."

"Did you breathe a word of this to Fred or Mildred?"

"Not a syllable."

"Tell either of them you picked up the gun?"

"No."

She blew out a long breath. "All right, good. That's good. Where are you now? LAX?"

He held what sounded like a brief exchange with Fred. Then: "Five miles outside of Twin Pines."

"_Twin Pines_-?"

"What would you have me do, Laura? Get on the flight to Hartford? It's only a matter of hours before the police start looking for me, if they haven't already. Put me on that plane, and I'd be in custody the moment we landed. No, far better to hide out for a bit while we get the lay of the land and decide what's to be done."

He was right. What was she thinking? Mildred wasn't the only investigator with the savvy to reconstruct a physical trail by computer, and, what was more, the police could command the cooperation of the airlines in their search for a suspected murderer. Remington was effectively grounded for the time being. And so, by extension, was Laura.

But: Remington Steele Investigations. The hunt for the impostor who was bent on destroying it. What would happen if they relinquished it now?

They'd lose the agency, that's what would happen. As soon as word spread that Remington Steele had another identity, and a shady one, at that, their adversary would seize the advantage. He would become bolder, openly declare himself the real Steele. She was sure of it.

Unless-

Unless she ignored the mess Remington was in and boarded that plane to the East Coast regardless. She checked her watch. There was more than half an hour before departure. If she drove like a maniac—violated every parking ordinance on the books to commandeer a space as near the terminal as possible—sprinted for the gate as fast as three-inch heels would carry her-

And leave Remington behind to clear his name alone? Risk the possibility of losing him forever if he fled Los Angeles? Or what if—heaven forbid—he landed in jail because he wasn't a good enough a detective in his own right to prove his innocence?

She sat motionless in the Rabbit, faced with two competing but equally untenable options. And was inundated with what felt like utter despair. This was the knowledge she'd squelched so resolutely a few moments ago, terrified of the choice she'd sensed was about to be thrust upon her.

She could save him, or she could save the agency. She couldn't save both.

Which would she be forced to surrender?

Her abstraction must have lasted longer than she realized, for Remington said, "Laura? Are you there?"

He was scared. She could hear it in his voice. Its inflection flashed her back to a conversation they'd had after that night six months ago in Pico Union, when he'd asked whether she would've given him up if he shot Tony Roselli to death, and waited with held breath for her answer.

I would've killed him, he'd said. I wish I had.

Had he killed Windsor Thomas instead?

Out of the question. Impossible. Unthinkable.

Except for the look in his eyes as he read the letter from Armand Lortie the other day, flint-like and implacable. The coldness in his voice as he declared that Windsor would expose him over his dead body. And the implication that he would protect her, Laura, by any means available, putting his own life on the line if he had to. He'd done it before, with Karl Weintraub, Bradford Galt, Tony Rosselli, Alessandro Castagnoli.

But this wasn't the first time someone had framed him for murder, or that she'd jumped to conclusions, assuming he was guilty. Benjamin Pierson sprang to mind. So did McIntyre and Henry Spellman. Besides, it was an article of faith with her that Remington would never hurt a woman. He'd told her so, and she believed him. His behavior over the years had borne him out.

He'd come through for her in Pramagiorre and again when it counted most with Anna. She would remember that until the day she died.

Tears had welled up, threatening to overwhelm her, when he said, his anxiety audible, "Laura?"

Yes, he was scared. And he needed her, maybe more than he ever had. How could she live with herself if she failed him?

Without drama or preamble, in a single, short, two-word sentence, she chose between the business that was her pride and joy and the only man she would ever love.

And unlike Menton, where he'd asked her to walk away from the agency to start a new life with him in London, she chose…him.

She said: "I'm here."

"You'll come to Billie's, won't you?"

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Thank God." It was his turn to exhale a sigh. "Laura, I love you."

"I know. Me, too." With an abrupt motion she broke the connection before he could say anything more. And there, in the solitude and anonymity of a parking lot off the 105, wept the first and last tears of regret she was to shed over the decision she'd made.

Only for a few minutes. That was all she allotted for indulging in her grief. After a stop in McDonalds' rest room to splash away the traces of the renegade tears that had defied her steely self-control, followed by the purchase of a cup of black coffee, she was speeding towards the Santa Monica Freeway.

The drive, fast and reckless, helped clear her head. The jolt of caffeine didn't hurt either. By the time she pulled into the garage at Windsor Square, she was already recovering her confidence in the future. She and Remington had survived bigger disasters than this, she told herself, and their relationship was as solid as it had ever been. There was plenty of reason to believe they'd weather this storm together, too. Even salvage the agency someday, come back bigger and better than before, once they'd had a chance to regroup and put up a real fight for it.

First they'd have to lie low for a while; there was no way around it. Remembering their suitcases, safely stowed in the limo's trunk, she felt another uptick of optimism. If they had to run from the law, at least they'd be doing it in decent clothes. And this visit home was an opportunity to pick up other necessities to smooth the rough patches ahead of them.

Purposefully she moved room by room through the house. Space in the Rabbit was limited, so she had to be merciless in editing her selections. Their passports were a no-brainer: ten of them in all, five for her, five for Remington, inscribed with the names of characters from three of the four movies in which Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn had played opposite each other—or, failing that, where their alter egos had worked in the same profession. Tucking them into her purse, Laura smiled. It was almost a year since she'd worn her Tracy Lord disguise; never had she partnered with Remington as Charles Kady-Haven. In a perverse kind of way she was almost looking forward to the experience.

The spare room that housed Remington's drawing table and tools she saved until last. There she packed as much of his equipment as she could fit into a duffel bag and filled his leather portfolio with every sketch she could lay her hands on. It was satisfying to think that whatever the future had in store, he'd be able to continue to grow as an artist. And who knew? There might be occasions when she could pose for him, in between evading the authorities and working from long distance to unmask Windsor's killer.

Loading their stuff into the Rabbit took fewer than ten minutes, a fact for which she was profoundly grateful. She was almost out the door—had readied her key to lock it behind her—when it struck her that Remington's gun, the Colt he'd purchased back in September, might come in handy for two fugitives. Though they rarely resorted to firepower, there was a certain amount of comfort in the knowledge that both of them could be armed against a potential threat if they had to be.

The safe Remington had commissioned for installation before they moved in was secreted carefully in the living room. He'd taught her how to open it months ago, when he'd backed down on his edict forbidding guns in the house and decided to conceal the Colt there. Despite her clumsiness, the combination clicked briskly under her fingertips. The door swung outward on noiseless hinges.

What she found inside riveted her to the spot.

First she had to tell herself, yes, she really _did_ see two guns lying side by side.

Second she had to overcome her bewilderment enough to absorb the strange gun's details. Snub-nosed silver pistol…handle inlaid with oak…

She was looking at the gun Roselli had stolen from her purse the day he'd attacked her at the agency.

_Roselli had invaded their home. He'd found their safe. He'd cracked the combination. _

If there was a label for the peculiar emotion that assaulted her, she didn't know it. Something like horror; something like repugnance; something like superstitious dread, or all of them mixed. Whatever it was, it dried her mouth and chilled her hands and pricked the flesh of her forearms into goose pimples.

She retained just enough presence of mind to stick her hand into a plastic bag before picking up the gun. But then she hesitated. The truth was she shrank from touching it, even at a remove. It took an enormous effort to conquer her reluctance and stand there, weighing the gun in her hand.

A familiar odor wafted to her nostrils as she did. Sniffing the barrel confirmed the impression.

Fresh gunpowder.

And at that was when her investigative skills came to the rescue, as bracing as a rush of fresh air in a smoke-filled room. She had the facts at her fingertips. The horror subsided as she steadily rehearsed them:

Windsor Thomas, dead of a gunshot wound just prior to a meeting she'd arranged with Remington Steele.

The sudden appearance of this gun, long missing, in the Steeles' safe, with the unmistakable signs that it had been fired very recently.

Roselli's mastery of slipping in and out of locked venues without tripping the alarm, of undetected surveillance. His expertise with guns. His long-ago vow to get even with Remington, to make Remington pay for making a fool of him in Ireland.

Roselli had framed Remington for Windsor's murder.

Remington's instincts had been spot on. He'd always maintained that Rosell was watching them from the shadows, biding his time. Today Roselli had seen his advantage…and struck.

Far from intimidating her, the knowledge brought with it a sense of power. As black as things might seem for Remington at the moment, there were three factors in his favor. They'd reported the pistol stolen the very day Roselli had made off with it. A ballistics test would show conclusively that Remington's Colt hadn't discharged the fatal bullet. And—most important of all, in her opinion—they wouldn't have to waste precious energy in trying to figure out who they were up against. Chances were better than ever that they'd beat this, provided they stayed a step ahead of the police—

Was it a twist of fate, or merely an eerie coincidence, that the doorbell rang in the middle of that thought? Or that a peek out the window revealed Lieutenant Jimmy Jarvis on their front doorstep, poised to ring again, if necessary?

So the hunt for Remington was on already.

Her immediate reaction was to pretend she wasn't home and duck out of sight until he gave up and left. But that was the coward's way out. And if there was anything she, Laura Steele, most emphatically was not, it was a coward. Hastily concealing the guns beneath the seat cushion of an armchair, she hurried to answer Jarvis' second ring.

Time for a game of high-stakes poker, with some show-and-tell on the side, was what she was thinking.

Jarvis' apologetic, Huck-Finn expression was firmly in place as she opened the door to him. She countered with the brightest smile in her arsenal. "Lieutenant? What brings you to this part of town?"

"Well…" He hitched his shoulders slightly in that self-deprecating mannerism of his, the one that was supposed to convey the image of a harmless, hopeless bumbler. Nothing could be further from the truth. "To be honest, a new case just crossed my desk, and it has me totally baffled. I was kind of wondering if you and Mr. Steele-" He broke off and peered past her into the farther corners of the foyer. "Mr. Steele around?"

He'd begun edging subtly toward the living room. With equal subtlety she blocked his advance. "He's in Santa Monica with a client. He'll be sorry he missed you."

"Yeah, me, too. Tell him I said hello."

"I'll make a point of it."

He was drifting away from her on a circuit of the foyer. It was a strategy she recognized because she'd employed it herself, pretending to admire artwork and bric-a-brac while scoping out adjacent rooms for her quarry. She sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving that her various boxes and bags were already bundled away in the Rabbit's trunk.

Meanwhile she stayed where she was, letting him look. "Nice place," he commented.

"We like it."

At length, frustrated of his objective, he wandered back to her side. "So, anyway, as I was saying. This case-"

"You mean 'this murder', don't you?"

"Right. Right. This murder-Hey, you know, it just occurred to me. The victim is someone you know."

"Really?"

"Windsor Thomas, the anchorlady from L.A. Spotlight News." A frown pinched Jarvis' brows together. "Help me out here, but I seem to remember you and your husband had a problem with her last year. She leaked some information to the police, or…?"

Come on, Jimmy, you can do better than that, Laura addressed him silently. Aloud she said, "You've got it backwards. An anonymous informant tipped her off that an intruder had broken into our offices. She confirmed with your department and then reported it on her noon broadcast."

Jarvis slapped his forehead in expertly feigned dismay. "Now it comes back to me! You guys were pretty mad at her. Hired a PR flak because she lost you a lot business. That had to hurt, huh?"

"Sure. But in the general scheme of things, and on a scale of one to ten, I'd rate it a two-and-a-half. Not much of a motive for murder, I'm afraid."

His glance was shrewd, though he persisted with the genial bumbler routine. "Ah, gee, Mrs. Steele. Did I say anything about motive?"

"You didn't have to. I have a pretty good idea what it means when the chief of homicide drops by my home unannounced in the middle of the day, hints around about a new murder case and our connection to the victim, and asks where my husband is." The gambit was a bold one; she smiled sweetly, hoping to disguise her nervousness at playing it so soon. "How am I doing so far, Lieutenant?"

It was always interesting to observe the transformation that came over Jarvis when he finally dropped the act and became himself. The mild gray eyes sharpened into cool intelligence, and his speech became quicker, more sophisticated.

"You've got to understand something, Mrs. Steele," he said. "It hasn't even been three hours since the murder was reported, and already my superiors are breathing down my neck. It'll be a thousand times worse when the media gets a hold of it. A pretty, popular local celebrity like Windsor Thomas? City Hall and the public will pile on. There'll be a lot of pressure to find the killer, and fast."

"Popular local celebrities make a lot of enemies, especially when they're in the news business. Unbalanced fans. Stalkers. Sometimes they even kill each other. Ask around at Channel Three sometime."

"Not a bad theory. I've got a better one. Would you like to hear it?"

This was the moment Laura had been waiting for: Jarvis, showing his hand. By her silence she signaled a tacit affirmative.

"My sources tell me Windsor just got back from Europe. A fact-finding trip, looking into Mr. Steele's past. I'm told what she found wasn't very pretty." A pause before Jarvis added, "Where is he, Laura?"

Lifting her chin, she stared at him in an outright challenge. "Why? Do you have a warrant for his arrest?"

He spread his hands. No.

"A search warrant?"

"You know I can get a judge to issue it within the hour-"

"Be sure and come back when you do."

For a second they stood there like the adversaries they were, both poker-faced, neither one giving an inch of ground. Jarvis was the one to look away.

But as he was exiting by the front door, he turned for a final warning. "Take my advice. Find him. Bring back from wherever he is. It's for his own good…and yours.

"Lieutenant, I have two words for you. Henry Spellman."

At this, a reference to the case where their paths had first crossed—a case in which Jarvis had tried to railroad Steele into confessing to a murder he didn't commit—Jarvis flushed. The door banged shut behind him as he went out.

For a few minutes after his departure Laura stood with fisted hands, exhaling the pent-up anxiety and anger she'd built up during the encounter. And that was when she made herself a vow. James Jarvis would take Remington away from her, shut him up in prison, over her dead body.

It was high time she hit the road for Lake Malibu.

* * *

Forever after, Laura would consign that solo drive to Twin Pines to the "lost" moments of her life: a chunk of time when her physical surroundings went largely unnoticed, once she was satisfied no one was tailing her. So deep in her plans was she, she traveled on autopilot, accommodating her speed to the car ahead of her instead of weaving in and out of traffic as she usually did. Yet the miles rolled by much faster than she would've predicted on departure from Los Angeles.

All that changed as she came up on the turnoff for Lake Malibu. Timed slowed, seemed almost to grind to a halt. It wouldn't have been so bad if desire for Remington hadn't hit her simultaneously, a wave of expectancy so strong she could barely contain it. The funny thing was, it wasn't so much sexual as a simple longing to see his smile, to kiss him, to feel him holding her, to reassure herself that he was still a free man, and hers…

The Rabbit took the final stretch of secluded road that led to Billie's cabins at close to eighty-five miles an hour. Brakes and tires squealed to a stop on the gravel of the makeshift parking lot. Seconds later Laura was out of the car and turning to scan the long, low line of cabins.

There he was—her husband Remington Steele-framed in the last doorway in the row, watching her. Twenty yards, maybe a little more, separated them. Even so she could clearly read the succession of expressions that crossed his face: wary, uncertain, hopeful.

They were the catalyst that spurred her to do something she'd done only once before in their relationship. Carelessly tossing her purse on the ground, she flew across the distance between her and her Remington Steele, and into his waiting arms.

"I know who killed Windsor," she said. "And I'm going to show the world you're innocent."

TO BE CONTINUED


	16. Chapter 16

**Here it is, 11 months later: the end of the story. In some ways it's more than I hoped, in others much less. But I can honestly say I tried to do my very best. And with that effort, I'm satisfied. **

**And now, dear readers, two questions for you:  
1) Did you like it?  
2) Should I continue?  
Anxiously awaiting your feedback. Author's notes to follow soon.  
~MG  
**

* * *

Chapter 16

Until the moment she pulled into the parking lot, Remington wasn't sure Laura would actually follow him to Twin Pines.

He himself had arrived at their favorite rustic getaway shortly after she rang off abruptly from their phone conversation—the conversation in which she'd been by turns acerbic, fearful and disconcertingly silent. The sudden click of the receiver, the buzz of the empty line, had startled and then dismayed him. Come to think of it, her response to his fervent 'I Iove you' had also left quite a lot to be desired. Instead of ardently reciprocating, she'd only offered a lackluster 'me, too'. Not exactly a reply to warm a man's heart, or provide the reassurance he so desperately longed for.

Perhaps Windor's murder was the last straw for her. Perhaps she was washing her hands at last of him and his constant habit of pulling her world down about her ears. Terrified of discovering he was right, he'd decided not to ring her back, to let the chips fall where they may. Meanwhile he'd occupy himself with securing a bolt-hole where they could hibernate until they'd determined their next move.

Twin Pines Rentals, the modest lodgings managed by Billie Young, drowsed unspoiled and peaceful in its mantel of scrub pine and cedar under the afternoon sun. Even better, the parking lot was empty, which might indicate there were no visitors in residence right now. Excellent. It would definitely make life easier if he and Laura had the place to themselves for the next day or two. What would happen when the weekend brought its usual influx of sportsmen avid for fishing and canoeing, he didn't want to consider yet.

Knocking at the door of the cabin that served as both her residence and office failed to raise Billie. But Remington had a good idea where to find her. Asking Fred to stand by with the limo, he headed down to the lake.

Soon enough he spied Billie at the base of the dock, gutting a fresh catch of whatever swam these waters. Her clothing made him smile: a plaid lumberjack shirt over a polo neck sweater and a knitted watch cap pulled low on her brow, not much different than the get-up he remembered from their first meeting. It always amazed him how thoroughly she, once the darling of Hollywood, fame and wealth and glamour at her fingertips, had divested herself of every trace of it once she'd entered her self-imposed exile in the back of beyond. He wondered if the same sort of transformation would be demanded of him and Laura someday. And if it was, would they negotiate it with the same measure of grace?

Perish the thought. His and Laura's flight was only temporary. As soon as they'd cleared his name, they'd return to Los Angeles, where they belonged.

His noiseless tread on the path went unnoticed by Billie. Halting a little behind her, he asked, "You've gotten a couple of bites, I see."

"Hey! Look who's here!" Billie got up, her warm, wide, gap-toothed smile lighting her face. "Just couldn't keep away, hah? We'll make an outdoors lover of you yet." She peered around him. "Where's the missus?"

"She'll be joining me shortly. Billie, we need a rather large favor."

"The end cabin? It's yours."

"It's more complicated than that, unfortunately." He hesitated, unsure whether extending the boundaries of the circle of his and Laura's confidence was a good idea or not. And, selfishly, he was worrying about how far he would fall in Billie's estimation if he told her the truth. The respect and respectability he'd enjoyed in his life as Remington Steele were hard-won; unaccustomed to them in the beginning, he'd grown to prize them. To watch them slip though his fingers one friend at a time wasn't a prospect he relished.

No stranger to ethical dilemmas, Billie was regarding him with obvious sympathy. "What's the matter, gorgeous?"

"We may need to stay indefinitely…And…it's highly likely the police are after me. You remember Windsor Thomas?"

"Lou Mackler's red-headed attack dog. Though I guess she must've had some heart under that killer instinct, or I wouldn't still be Chelsea Nash of Twin Pines."

"She was murdered this afternoon. And I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I…may be a suspect. The number one suspect, in point of fact."

If he'd pictured Billie recoiling from him in shock, he was in for a pleasant surprise. "Not you, kid. It couldn't be," she said stoutly. "It's not in you."

"That's what Laura says."

"Well, she's a smart little gal. You should listen to her more often."

Crouching on the dock, he helped Billie scoop her fish into a couple of stainless steel buckets. As they climbed the path towards the cabins, she said, "You want me to cover for you. Is that it?"

"I know it's a lot to ask-"

She stopped him with an upraised hand. "You kids saved me from Jake's Slater's blackmail, not to mention when Lou Mackler tried to choke me to death. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you. If you need me to lie to the boys in blue, I'll lie to 'em."

Remington hastened to set her straight on the danger of feeding the police false information. "Not only is it not necessary, it's out of the question," he said. "If you'd let us register under our aliases…call us by them…that ought to do the trick. As for the police, it'll be a while before they trace us here. By the time they come knocking on your door, we'll be long gone."

They haggled over it for a few minutes more, with Billie every bit as mulish as he knew from firsthand experience she could be. But he stood firm and eventually carried the day. They parted after he'd appended a couple of names to the register—a proceeding that had her literally poking a finger beneath the watch cap to scratch her head, then set her roaring with laughter. "_The Philadelphia Story_! Right?"

"Right."

"Good golly, you two are a stitch."

Remington grinned. "We try."

Outside in the parking lot, he and Fred wrestled the luggage from the limo's trunk in tandem and transferred it to the end cabin. Fred was self-contained and uncommunicative as they worked, Remington noted. Then again, Fred was always self-contained and uncommunicative. There wasn't an earthly reason to imagine that their taciturn chauffeur owed his taciturnity at this moment to anything but his God-given nature. Still, it was comforting to recall that the glass partition had remained firmly in place between them for all but a few seconds of his, Remington's, earlier conversation with Laura, and that they'd accomplished the drive from Laurel Canyon to Twin Pines without resorting once to the radio.

But it was more than worry over what the other man might've seen or heard that made Remington accompany him back to the limo once they'd accomplished their task. Though Fred was unaware of it, this was a farewell. How long would it be before they met again? Weeks? Months? Ever?

With a pang of something that felt a hell of a lot like sorrow, Remington stuck out his hand. "Well, mate, you're familiar with the old saying. End of the line, etcetera, etcetera."

Fred's handshake was a hearty one. "Have a safe trip, Mr. Steele."

"Ah, yes. Our trip." Remington groped for the words to explain it without revealing too many details. "We…may be gone a long time. Longer than we anticipated. In fact, our return date is very much up in the air just now."

Fred stood looking at him, impassive.

"Find yourself a temporary job til we get back. Not forever, mind you, just something to tide you over. We'll have Mildred write a glowing reference on our behalf."

"Thank you, sir. But I've been thinking I'd like to get out of town for a month or so, see some of the country. They say South Carolina's nice this time of year."

There was nothing especially significant in Fred's voice as he said it, but Remington grasped the subtext. Maybe the chauffeur hadn't seen or heard everything, but he had a good idea what was going on nevertheless. And he was putting himself out of reach of the police in case they attempted to bring him in for questioning about Remington's possible role in Windsor's murder. In his quiet way Fred was promising, if not open defiance, at least non-compliance with the authorities.

"Don't get yourself into any trouble," Remington warned him. "Not on my account."

Fred's reply was to wring his hand again, harder and more painfully. Then he climbed into the front seat and started the engine. The Caddy came to life with a powerful yet aristocratic roar; Remington withdrew far enough to allow Fred space to pull out.

But Fred just sat there, gazing at him with a strangely expectant expression. At first Remington didn't grasp the reason for his failure to move, and showed it through a questioning eyebrow. But soon it hit him what Fred was about.

He was waiting for Remington's tap on the limo's roof, dismissing him from service.

For an instant the two men's eyes locked in shared memories of heart-pounding car chases and careening wildly through the streets to prevent crimes-in-progress or rescue a client. There were recollections, as well, of certain off-the-record conversations in which Fred had initiated Remington into his dual passions, bluegrass music and baseball. And last there was the unspoken, masculine bemusement that had united them at the feistiness of the brown-eyed little baggage who employed them both, and whose guts and sheer daring left them not infrequently gaping with awe.

The interval ended when Remington stepped forward to slap his palm, once, twice, on the roof above Fred's head. The limo slipped into gear and gathered speed. Not until it had disappeared down the road did Remington turn toward the cabin.

Now there was nothing left for him to do but hope that Laura would come.

And if she didn't?

He'd run, of course. Pacing the cabin's limited confines, he conceded it was his only option if Laura threw him over. As decent a detective as she'd made of him, he knew he'd no chance of finding Windsor's killer if left to his own resources. Besides, if he'd already lost Laura, where was the use in trying?

What had possessed him to take Windsor's phone call anyway? Odd that he couldn't remember his line of reasoning. Now he found himself cursing that fateful impulse, as well as the circumstances that had put him in position in the first place. It was damnable luck alone, as far as he could see. His only comfort was that the consequences could've been worse if he hadn't spoken to her. Windsor might easily have aired the Jean Murrell story without forewarning him. Exposed as a fraud, or wanted for a murder he didn't commit: was there much to choose between the two?

Both spelled the end of life as he knew it, life as Remington Steele.

As for impressions of the crime scene…the discovery of a still-bleeding corpse where he'd expected the vibrant redhead who not an hour before was teasing him on the phone…best not to dwell on them at all. No question Windsor was a gadfly, one he'd have happily re-assigned to the correspondent's desk in Outer Mongolia or Siberia if it was in his power to do so. But for all that, she was a young, beautiful woman. It made him sick-sick to his stomach, sick at heart-to witness the wanton destruction of so much loveliness. If he was correct, and he was being framed, she'd lost her life to a vendetta against him; he wasn't certain how he'd bear up under the guilt.

He needed Laura. He needed her badly. If only she were here.

If only she were here; if only it wasn't almost a week since he'd made love to her. He'd have felt far more confident of her riding to his rescue if he hadn't kept her at arms length while she made up her mind about the baby question. A conscious decision on his part, arising from the conviction that sex might roil the waters more than they already were. He didn't want to confuse her or unduly influence her—or, worse, rouse suspicions that he was trying to manipulate her again. It was the noble, unselfish thing to do, he thought, and congratulated himself on his wonderfulness.

Yes, and it was also a fine form of payback. Admitting it made him wince. But there was no denying the satisfaction he'd derived from the sight of the hurt and bewilderment in her eyes when he turned away from her in the shower on Sunday morning. Now she'd understand the disappointment he was feeling, a little voice inside him had gloated. Now the shoe was on the other foot. Served her right, too.

Well, he was counting the cost of that bit of nastiness, wasn't he? And kicking himself for his colossal stupidity. If not for that, memories of their last time together would possibly weight the balance in his favor in any internal battle she was fighting over joining him here. And _he_'d have had those same memories to solace him if she never showed…

During his reverie he'd continued striding back and forth, back and forth, and his current circuit had taken him to the rear of the cabin. That was why he missed Laura's arrival. By the time he was once again within view of the screen door, the Rabbit was sitting in the parking lot.

His pulses began to beat suffocatingly. The car door was opening; she was climbing out; she was gazing straight at him. And then she was running to him so fast that her hair streamed behind her in a wind of her own making, and he barely had time to open his arms before she was there, enfolding him in the strength of her embrace.

Words failed him. All he could do was press her to his heart. His dearest love. His Laura. The best thing that had ever happened to him.

He was ready then and there to savor the moment more fully, but Laura was brimming over with too much information to settle down even for an extended hug. "I know who killed Windsor," she said, taking his hand and leading him into the cabin. "And I'm going to prove to the world that you're innocent."

As soon as he heard her account of the discovery of the gun in their safe, intuition told him she'd hit on the truth.

Roselli. He should've known.

What he didn't understand was how the murdering bastard had gotten wind of his, Remington's, meeting with Windsor in the first place. "A bug in your office," Laura replied. "It has to be. Either that or he's tapping the agency phones. From the timing I'd say he headed for Windsor's the second you hung up with her."

"Which means I missed him by minutes. A little sooner and I might've saved her."

Laura eyed him keenly. "Blaming yourself, Mr. Steele? Don't. We've got enough trouble on our hands without adding misplaced guilt to the list." She paused. "Lieutenant Jarvis dropped by the house just before I left."

"Already? Damn."

"You said yourself it was only a matter of time."

"Yes, but I didn't expect it this soon. Though you do have to admire the man. His level of competence seems to have risen since the last time we ran afoul of him. I'd be encouraged if it wasn't at my expense."

"It gets worse. Someone at Spotlight News tipped him off about Windsor's trip. I don't think he's heard all the details, but he knows enough to consider you his main suspect. And the commissioner's already pushing him to wrap up the investigation as quickly as possible."

There they were: the naked, unvarnished facts of his predicament. The Steeles gazed at each other in mutual acknowledgment of them.

"In your professional opinion," Remington said at length, "what are the odds we can prove it's Roselli who did it? Is there even a snowball's chance in hell? Or should I resign myself to a lifetime of orange jumpsuits and cellmates with nicknames like Dragline and Loudmouth Steve?"

"It's not hopeless. But we've got our work cut out for us, and then some."

By now they were sitting together on the edge of the bed with their hands clasped. Laura's palm was firm, her grip steady. Was it fanciful to believe that some of her clear-headedness and courage were flowing into him through that physical connection? He didn't think so.

He said: "What's our next move?"

It came as no surprise that she'd already fleshed out a far-reaching plan, one whose substance he by and large couldn't quibble with. Remembering the lessons they'd learned the last time they went on the run, she'd hit a couple of banks before leaving L.A. and withdrawn large chunks of cash from their personal account and the agency's discretionary fund. "No credit cards or checks until this blows over," she said with a smile. "Bulky or not, you're going to have to get used to carrying cash."

Given that the Rabbit was as distinctive in its way as the Auburn, she suggested they invest part of the cash in another vehicle, something sober and reliable that wouldn't attract undue attention when they departed Twin Pines to begin the fight to clear his name. She was hoping Billie would help them find a place to store the Rabbit until they came back for it. A shed or garage off the beaten path would be ideal.

And the agency? Too difficult to operate by remote control; they'd either have to put Mildred completely in charge or else shut down for an indefinite hiatus. With communications into and out of the office compromised, thanks to whatever covert listening device Roselli had installed, keeping in touch with their assistant was going to be a challenge no matter which option they chose. Bumpers might prove invaluable in that respect, but Laura wasn't sure they could trust him: would he side with the police or with them? In the meantime she and Remington should venture out once night had fallen and hunt for a pay phone from which they could call Mildred at home. Laura wanted to reassure her they were all right, get an update on Jarvis' latest move and discuss sundry papers and personal belongings to be shipped to the Steeles' next destination-

Here Remington interrupted. "And that would be-?"

Laura didn't miss a beat. "Denver."

"Denver? Why the devil…?" He trailed off, realizing she could mean only one thing. His incredulous stare gave place to a mutinous scowl. "_Murphy_?"

"He'll help us, Remington. I know he will."

"You're asking me to put my future in Murphy Michaels' hands?"

"It's _our_ future. And yes, that's exactly what I'm asking."

He couldn't believe his ears. Detaching his hand from hers, he jumped up and without conscious intent began to pace the cabin's boundaries again. "Laura, have you gone completely insane?"

"He's the logical choice. He's a familiar face back home. We can trust him not to turn you in. He knows what you used to be, so we won't have to tap dance around it. And don't forget the part where he's a crack private investigator."

"Crack whistleblower, more like. You're talking about the man whose sole ambition for an entire year was to uncover evidence of my past crimes-"

"Aren't you exaggerating-"

"-put me behind bars-"

"-just a little bit-?"

"-so he could have you to himself!"

Judging by the depth of her dimple, his tirade was amusing her. "Oh, come on," she said. "Murph was never serious about me, not really. He just couldn't resist competing with you. Besides, I thought the two of you worked it all out before he left. Buried the hatchet, and so on."

"Certainly we did, based on the understanding that he keeps to Denver, I keep to Los Angeles, and never the twain shall meet."

"Well, he's married now, and a father. That's something you have in common, right? Think of all the experience he has with babies, just waiting for you to tap."

"Congratulations, Mrs. Steele. You've hit on the very strategy for engaging Murphy's sympathy. There's nothing more soothing to a man's pride than to learn the woman he once cared for is going to have his rival's child. A stroke of genius, really. Well done."

Most women would've wilted under his blistering sarcasm. Laura, of course, did nothing of the sort. "Fine, I'm off the mark," she said briskly. "But I think I just figured out what's behind all this bluster. It's not Murphy's masculine ego that's at stake here. It's yours."

His frown deepened. "Of all the ridiculous statements you've made about me, that one takes the biscuit."

"It does? Then why can't we go to him for help?"

"Because I don't trust him!" he shouted. "I've never had reason to! He'd have betrayed me to the police a dozen times over, if you hadn't stopped him. Not once did he give me credit for a clever idea…a decent human emotion…genuine feelings for you. If he was ever 'behind me' in all the time we worked together, it was because he was ready to shove me off the first available cliff!"

Thrusting a hand through his hair, he took another turn around the room. "Let me tell you something else. If Murphy's our only alternative, I'd far rather we took our chances with the LAPD. At least with Jarvis we know where we're at. If we left this minute"-here he consulted his watch—"we could be home by eight. Perhaps he'd stay later at the precinct if we rang him now-"

"Remington! Don't!"

The command rang sharply in the room. Already picking up the telephone, he let it fall again. And turned to find a Laura who'd leapt from the bed, just as he'd done a few minutes prior, and was confronting him with all the fire of which she was capable.

In spite of his own considerable annoyance, he was a shade taken aback. "Why not?" he demanded.

"It's too dangerous, that's why not." Suddenly she was no longer meeting his gaze. "We can't predict how he'll react. He could lock you up right away—tonight-maybe influence the judge at your arraignment to deny you bail. We can't risk it." Her voice had been losing volume while she spoke, but gathered force again as she said: "We can't go back. Not now, not-"

She closed her lips tight over the last word, swallowing it before it could reach his ears. No matter. He was fairly certain he could guess what it was.

'Ever'. That was what she almost said. 'We can't go back. Not ever.'

Why couldn't they? He cast about for an explanation and came up with the only one that fit.

Was she saying-?

Did she mean-?

Though he tried hard, he couldn't complete the thought. Coldness like nothing he'd previously experienced had settled in the pit of his stomach, was creeping along his limbs, freezing the tips of his fingers. It was a spiritual chill, not physical, yet he felt himself begin to tremble. He stared at his wife, in thrall to a suspicion whose enormity struck him temporarily dumb.

_God in heaven_, _did Laura believe _he'd_ murdered Windsor_?

For an instant—the bleakest, most desolate of his entire life to date—_he_ believed she believed exactly that.

It was reason alone that saved him: clean, sane, sweeping in with arguments against.

Laura didn't think that. Of course she didn't. And he could point to why that was so. His Laura was a straight arrow, as straight as they came. Nothing on earth, not even her love for him, could've induced her to sacrifice her principles if she harbored the slightest doubt of his innocence. Would she have condoned his fleeing the police? Pledged her support, to all intents and purposes implicating herself as an accessory after the fact? On the contrary, she'd have persuaded him to confess and let justice take its course. She'd have been precisely what he accused her of the day they found St. Mark's boots in Wycliffe's crawlspace: Laura Steele, steadfast upholder of the law.

This made sense to him. The trembling stopped. He could think and breathe again, he found.

Still…wouldn't it lay the issue entirely to rest if he posed the question, and heard her response?

He plucked up his nerve and faced her.

Apparently his turmoil had somehow made itself visible to her, for concern had outlined the usual vertical creases between her brows. "Are you all right?" she said.

"Yes." Shakily he gulped in a breath. "No. Laura…it seems to me we've missed a step here. Several, actually. And it would ease my discomfort a good deal if we could air something out before we go any farther."

With a gesture she conveyed her willingness to help.

"You haven't asked me if I did it. Aren't you going to?"

She wasted barely a second before closing the gap between them, tilting her head to gaze up at him. "Did you do it?"

How clear her eyes were. They reminded him of a stream he'd camped beside years ago—evading capture in Scotland, he was—fathomless crystal water, a bed of russet rock.

"No," he said. "I didn't."

"That's what I thought." The short nod she gave was vigorous, confident, as if he'd merely confirmed a truth she'd already accepted.

"That's what you thought…?" he echoed her.

The rest of the sentence was lost, left dangling in mid-air, because he'd seized Laura's face in both hands and was covering her mouth with his.

Other words were pouring out of him, however, love words, passionate endearments, as he feasted long and hard on her lips. Since his first sight of her more than five years ago, scarcely a moment had gone by when he hadn't wanted her on some level or another. This was different. Half-frantic with yearning to sink into her warmth, to feel her cradling him with her whole body, he ran impatient, uncharacteristically clumsy hands along her slender curves. Then he pulled her tight against him in a now-silent plea, depending on her not to mistake his meaning.

She didn't disappoint him. Instead, perfectly attuned to his rhythms as she always was, she melted into his embrace and matched him kiss for kiss. It was she who guided him to the bed and pulled him down with her. It was her deft fingers that loosened her clothing to allow him access to stroke and fondle and kiss her bare flesh as his fancy carried him. And when he poised himself above her, near tears because of the moment's unexpected poignancy, she looked up at him and smiled that incomparable Laura smile before wrapping her legs around him and drawing him deep inside her.

Afterwards it took him a few minutes to calm his heartbeat and breathing, and a few minutes more for his head to clear. He raised his face from where it was buried in that irresistible hollow between her shoulder and neck. "My God, Laura. That was-"

"It was," she agreed.

Briefly he touched his lips to her throat. Then he braced himself on his left elbow, the better to gaze down at her. Her face was soft and flushed, her body still glowing with the pink of arousal and exertion. "You've got that look about you, you know," he said.

"What look?"

"The one a man hopes to see after making love to his wife. Lets him know he's gotten it right."

"What do you mean? You always get it right."

"Thank you." With grave tenderness he combed stray strands of hair off her forehead and cheek. "You're so beautiful." He couldn't suppress a sigh. "So beautiful. Sometimes I can scarce believe you're really mine."

That delighted her; he could tell by the way her eyes sparkled, though she deflected the compliment with her usual offhandedness. "Even after ten months of sharing the bathroom? Fighting over the last spoonful in the peanut butter jar? Me nagging you to take out the garbage night after night?"

"Even then."

"So what you're basically saying is you've become a glutton for punishment."

"Hardly that. You, on the other hand…Why do you put up with me? All I've ever brought you is trouble."

"You know me," she said lightly. "I kind of like trouble."

"If it weren't for me, we'd be in Connecticut, hot on the trail of our impostor. And the fate of Remington Steele Investigations wouldn't be hanging in the balance again."

"Without you there _is_ no Remington Steele Investigations. Not anymore."

Wonderful reassurance, almost as wonderful as her insistence that he'd be a good father. Yet it left him vaguely dissatisfied. Laura in her way was as sparing with expressions of her deepest emotions as he was himself. Would they ever grow comfortable enough to drop the guard they both persisted in maintaining? Or would the old habit of reserve continue to survive long past its original usefulness?

"But why?" he said again. "Can't you tell me, my love? Eh?"

"Why do I put with you?"

"Why you put up with me, yes."

"Aside from the fact you're the handsomest, smartest, sexiest man in the world? And not a half-bad detective? A partner and husband I can trust with my life? A fantastic lover?"

Her list was embarrassing him—he could feel the blush spreading over his cheeks and forehead—but he nodded.

"Well, maybe it's because you gave me the piano," she went on, an impish gleam in her eye. "You never can tell. Or because you saved my life that night at the Federal Reserve Bank. Maybe it's our second wedding, the real one, the one you planned for me. Do you think that might be it?"

In concert with her musings she was moving closer her to him, fitting her body flush against his, slowly sliding her arms around his neck. "It's possible," he agreed.

She pressed him back against the pillows. "It could be because you came home to me from Menton"-she bent and kissed him—"you found me in Pramagiorre"—another kiss—"you're willing to wait to have a baby until I'm ready."

Her third kiss was the most intense and sensuous of all. His hand slipped beneath her hair to cup her head, keeping her with him as long as he could. He needn't have worried; even after they separated she continued to hover above him, her breath warm on his lips. "Or maybe it's because I'm madly in love with you, Remington Steele," she said softly.

"Are you?"

"Mm-hm. Head over heels. Have been since you bought me that first glass of champagne at the Huntington Ritz."

It wasn't precisely the impassioned declaration he'd hoped for. But it would serve. Oh, yes, it would serve very nicely. It was a beginning, anyway, he thought, and smiled.

They rested there, exchanging gentle kisses at first, and then just lying quiet together. Light began to seep from the room. "What time is it?" Laura asked drowsily.

He stretched across her to the single nightstand and peered at his watch. "Half-past six."

"I guess we should see what Spotlight News has to say about Windsor. Then how about some dinner? We can look for a pay phone on the way."

In the absence of a remote control he obligingly crossed the room to switch on the television. Back in bed he resumed his former position and settled her within the curve of his arm. Laura's swift upward glance said she understood why he wanted her there: he was nervous. So was she, he knew. But regardless of the twists the inquiry into Windsor Thomas' murder might take, no one could destroy the shelter they provided for each other.

Something of huge consequence, something newsworthy, was about to happen in Los Angeles.

At least that was the impression the Steeles gleaned from the Spotlight News reporter whose head shot filled the TV screen in lieu of the anchor desk that should've opened the newscast. "…Only thirty seconds before this impromptu press conference is set to begin," she was saying into her hand-held microphone. "I'm told the agency spokesman has arrived and will be with us momentarily. But no one I've talked to seems to have any idea what he's planning to say. As you can see, Alan, a sizable audience is waiting for the solution to the mystery-"

Now the camera was slowly pulling back into a wide shot that offered viewers some context. The aforementioned crowd was gathered in a rough semi-circle outside the vestibule of an office tower, with photographers and cameramen competing for the most advantageous sight lines. Boom microphones and klieg and key and spot lights mounted on tall frames cluttered the perimeter; their focal point was the podium erected just in of front the building's doors, with another, shorter, mike atop it. The podium itself was empty.

"Wait a minute," Laura said, and broke abruptly from Remington's arms to scoot to the end of the bed, where she leaned forward to scan the screen.

The scene shifted, picking up the back of a dark-suited man striding in from the hindmost edge of the crowd. In voiceover the reporter said: "He's coming this way now-"

"—That's our building!" declared Laura.

A mid-shot captured the unknown man as he closed the remaining distance to the podium. The moment he'd reached it, and turned face forward to the onlookers, the camera zoomed into a tight close-up. Reflected in his eyes were the tiny explosions of dozens of flashbulbs, the brilliant white beams of the spots.

Laura gasped. Remington cursed. Frozen in place, they could only look on, powerless to stop the madness.

The Spotlight News reporter, in voiceover again: "For those of you just joining us, we're live at Century City Plaza, where Remington Steele Investigations has called a press conference-"

And:

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of the press," said Tony Roselli in a flawless Irish accent which, except for its baritone register, could've passed for Remington's. "My thanks for coming at such short notice. I promise my remarks will be brief. But before I begin, allow me to introduce myself."

He swept the crowd with ice blue eyes and smiled. "My name is Remington Steele."

The furor he set off, shouts, a flurry of questions, seemed to please him; his smile widened. He'd cut his hair, the bastard had, Remington noted beneath his shocked daze, dyed it a shade darker and straightened it, to boot. In an impeccably cut suit that Remington recognized as a Brioni, Roselli seemed trimmer, much less muscle-bound than he'd been Ireland or Mexico. The resemblance between them, never very remarkable in the past, suddenly verged on the obscene, considering the evil Roselli was capable of.

He wasn't done, either, apparently.

"You're confused," Roselli continued, addressing the assembled reporters. "It's understandable. But I assure you, all will be revealed in due course. In the meantime, there's one point where I won't prolong the suspense. You're asking yourselves already, aren't you? If I'm Remington Steele, who's the man who's been trading on my identity for the past five years? Passing himself off as a detective? Preying on your trust?

"I'll be truthful: I don't know his real name. But I _will _state, emphatically, categorically, that he's an impostor. And I can prove it."

In his hand, as if by magic, was a thick cream-colored envelope. From it he pulled a sheet of paper that unfolded to full length and held up to the cameras. "This, ladies and gentlemen, is the license granted to me by the California Bureau of Investigations in 1977. On it you'll find my signature—the signature that matches every document on file between 1981and September 1982 at the agency I founded. As for the files created since then…all I can say is, you'll find that's not the case, if you'll care to look. I certainly encourage you to do so." Another cheek-splitting smile. "And now I'll take a few questions-"

That was when Laura said, in a dry, dead version of her real voice: "Turn it off."

Roselli was in the midst of a glib response to the first reporter he'd tapped, so Remington wasn't sure he'd heard his wife correctly. "Eh?"

"Turn if off, Remington. Please."

Sans television the room was preternaturally silent. He sat down beside her at the end of the bed and tried to slip an arm around her. She evaded him. He knelt at her feet and grasped both her hands; she pulled them away.

"Laura-" he began.

"So it was him all along," she said, as if he hadn't spoken. "I should've seen it. I should've seen it coming."

He searched her face, searched for the fighting spirit that should've been blazing there, but wasn't. Not a flicker of it, not the tiniest spark. If he was scared before, now he was absolutely terrified.

Again he took her hands. This time she didn't resist, but let them lay nerveless in his. They felt incredibly small and cold, a throwback to Pramagiorre and the effects of _la belle assassine silencieuse_. And, just as he had in her bedroom at Castagnoli's, desperate to infuse her with life and warmth, he began to chafe them.

"He hasn't won, not by a long shot, he hasn't," he said. "He thinks he's outmatched us? He thinks he can take my place as Remington Steele? We'll beat him at his own game. We can do it, baby, you and I, together. All right? Okay?"

Still in that colorless little voice, she said: "No."

"No?"

"It's over. Remington Steele…the agency…It's all over."

He stared back at her, uncomprehending.

"Don't you get it? The license is the weak spot. Always has been. It was the only thing I couldn't fake. I used to lay awake nights, worrying…but no one ever asked to see it…After a while I just stopped thinking about it. I mean, we were doing so well without it, pulling off the charade…"

His brow was knit with the effort of following her. "You're saying I don't have—Remington Steele doesn't have-" Bit by bit the truth was sinking in. "You never applied for his P.I. license?"

"Legally I didn't need to. As long as I have my license and pay you a salary, what we're doing isn't against the law. It's your credentials…the stuff I put into Remington's Steele's bio to impress clients who wouldn't hire a woman. We can't back them up."

"Then…we haven't a shred of evidence to show Roselli's license is phony. And that he's not Remington Steele."

"Not unless we tell the whole world that I'm the real detective, and Remington Steele's nothing but a figurehead." Her face twisted on the last words, as if with unbearable pain.

What she did next caught Remington thoroughly unawares. Wrenching away from him, she scooped up the jeans she'd peeled off while they made love. Before he could recover from his surprise she'd donned them and picked up her shoes and was stumbling blindly for the door.

He sprang to his feet. This was far too reminiscent for his taste of other crises that had befallen them, divided them-adverse circumstances or downright catastrophes that had propelled her to flee from him when she should've, in his opinion, sought refuge in his arms.

Not this time, he said to himself. Not this time.

"Laura, come back here!" It was an angry growl that produced no discernible effect on her. He tried again. "Laura, come on! Let me-"

Let me help you, was what he intended to say. Let me hold you, and comfort you. But the old, familiar, bloody constriction was choking him. The words stuck in his throat.

Old habits did die hard. The proof was in the pudding. Indeed.

In his anguish he burst out with the sole remaining thought in his head: "Damn it, Laura! I love you-!"

That fetched her. Her hand was falling away from the doorknob. She was turning. She was slowly, hesitantly moving towards him. And when he came to meet her halfway, she walked into his arms.

She didn't cry, of course. Never shed a single tear. But she did lean against him with a weary sigh. A little after that, her arms crept around his waist. In the growing darkness of the cabin they stood clinging together, two people who had just lost everything they had in the world, except each other.

Still the Steeles? Perhaps not.

But always, and forever, inseparable.

* * *

In a hotel room in Boston, the one man in the world who could rescue the Steeles from Roselli— a man who, incidentally, was not Murphy Michaels—had just tilted an ice-cold bottle of Harps up to his mouth when the phone rang.

"Flannery," he said into the handset.

The voice at the other end with its rough southern American intonation was one with which he was intimately acquainted. "Niemand's been spotted," it said.

"When?"

"Last night."

"Where?"

"Los Angeles. Looks like he's up to his old antics."

Flannery didn't have to ask. He knew, none better, what the term "antics" was a euphemism for.

"You have orders for me?" he said instead.

"A courier's on his way up. Dressed like a Fed Ex driver, he is. Look over the material and call me back when you're through."

The Southern had degenerated into the worst parody of shanty Irish; Flannery frowned at his interlocutor, despite the fact the other man couldn't see him. "Marquess, how many times do I have to tell you? Quit with the accent. You sound like an idiot."

Marquess laughed. "Tip the lad generously, Davy me bucko. And don't forget to call me back."

The packet, when it arrived, contained four things. Three were photos. The fourth was a brief summary that described what he was seeing. Sipping his beer, Flannery spread them out on the table in front of him.

Photo number one: Remington Steele. Fair-skinned, dark-haired, blue-eyed. Black Irish, unless Flannery missed his guess. He had cousins enough on his father's side—cousins with the same general appearance and coloring-to recognize the type.

Photo number two: Laura Steele, formerly Holt. Steele's wife. California girl, though not the kind the Beach Boys used to sing about. Much, much prettier. And smart, judging by her bio. Flannery felt a pang of something—alarm, maybe?—at the thought of Niemand doing his usual beastly number on this one.

The third photo was of the couple together. Steele was tall, Mrs. Steele tiny, the top of her head just clearing her husband's shoulder. Yet of the two, Flannery had the feeling she was the force to be reckoned with.

"What's the story?" he asked as soon as he had Marquess on the line again.

Marquess told him. For Flannery it was an-oft rehearsed tale. The Steeles had disappeared under a cloud of suspicion the day before. No one had seen or heard from them since. And Niemand in his malevolent ingenuity had not only appropriated Steele's identity, but his business, a detective agency.

"Shit," Flannery said under his breath, and buried his head in his hands. Somehow he'd hoped for better for the sake of the pretty brown-eyed girl in the photos. Of Marquess he demanded: "Where do you want me to start?"

"How should I know, David? That's what we're paying you for. And keep the corpses to a minimum if you can. Bad enough the motherfucker has the Earl of Claridge to his credit."

"I understand."

With the conversation ended, Flannery availed himself of another beer and sat pensively drinking. Felt the old weariness sucking at his bones. Felt, too, the resurgence of the old determination as a counterbalance. And as it gained the upper hand, he smiled.

Well, well, Niemand, old partner, he said to himself. Here you are at last. It won't be long before I get you face-to-face. And when I do, I'm going to kick your feckin' ass all the way to perdition, where you belong.

He lifted the bottle in a silent toast, and drank.

* * *

FINIS

**Coming next: _Steele Inseparable _Part IX: "DoppelSteele"**

Her husband or the agency? Laura can only save one; she's made her choice. Now it's a battle to the death across two continents to take back what's theirs from Roselli.


End file.
